


Not Quite Paradise

by inevitablethief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1950's, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Boats and Ships, Bottom Dean Winchester, Castiel in Glasses, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Desert Island, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fire, Intercrural Sex, It's Deserted not Desert, Killing Animals for Food, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Minor Anna Milton/Dean Winchester, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poet Castiel, Poetry, Questionable First Aid Practices, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitablethief/pseuds/inevitablethief
Summary: A beat poet from a wealthy family, a working class mechanic with a tragic background, and a single life raft that washes up on a deserted Greek island.  It's 1957, and Dean Winchester should be lucky his old Army buddy was willing to give him a job as Chief Engineer of the yacht he captained.  Unfortunately, the wealthy and stuck up Milton family chartered it for the preparations for their daughter's wedding.  Dean doesn’t like their son, the arrogant Castiel, but, when the yacht catches fire and Castiel has to jump off the burning boat, Dean is not about to let the man drown.  Afloat together in an inflatable raft, they have to learn to get along despite their cultural differences.  When the raft washes up on a windswept island with limited resources, it becomes less about their bickering and more about their survival.  If only they’d learn to appreciate each other’s strengths, perhaps they might do more than survive, perhaps they’d find something that would change their lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Dean Cas Big Bang! This was very loosely inspired by an episode of Quantum Leap where Sam is stranded on an Greek island with Brooke Shields' stuck up socialite. It only takes the basic premise and a few plot points from the episode and nothing from the premise of the show itself. I had a blast doing this, and I had a great time working with my artist, OnceUponADestiel, whose beautiful artwork you'll see [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8225279). Thanks to my beta, too, who made sure the stuff I wrote at 3:00 am actually made sense.
> 
> You will notice Castiel is a poet in this fic. I, the author, am not a poet. Please, please, please pretend my terrible poetry is Castiel's good poetry.

The ship lurched out of the Port of Piraeus, and Dean had to hold onto the railing to keep from falling over. He glanced quickly around, hoping none of the more experienced sailors about the deck had seen him. He caught his second engineer, a tall and gangly American ex-pat named Garth, giving him a sympathetic smile. Few others, mostly experienced Greek sailors who called home the islands they were about to sail through, would be as forgiving. Dean was their superior, yet had the sea legs of an uncoordinated baby giraffe. It had been his father’s greatest disappointment that his son had not followed him into the Marines, and, now, irony of ironies, Dean had ended up on a boat anyway.

Dean couldn’t help but feel useless, despite his unparalleled knowledge of the motors that made the boat move through the water. He was grateful to Benny, of course, for the job, for the chance to get out of Kansas, and for giving him a new home after everything that had happened. The _Andrea III_ was Benny’s father-in-law’s boat, as were three others, but the job of captaining her was Benny’s, and he was willing to extend his hand to an old Army buddy in need. Dean only wished it had been on land.

It was a beautiful day; May in Athens was something Dean would remember for the rest of his life. Flowers in bloom, wafting their sweet scents over the hills outside the city, and the sun shining over the ruins on the Acropolis. He’d never been anywhere as beautiful before in his life, except maybe for his one R&R in Tokyo, but mostly, his time in Korea and Japan had been one Army base after another.

Dean was wrenched from his thoughts by a wave of nausea. He emptied the contents of his stomach off the side, to the laughter of the deckhands. After his last wretch, Dean felt a comforting hand on his back.

“You all right there, brother?” Benny’s voice asked with a hint of amusement.

Dean righted himself, but still leaned against the railing. “Shouldn’t you be steering this thing?”

Benny let out a pleased laugh. “Nah, I tell ‘em where to go, and other people do the work. My job is to make those drips feel like they’ve got their money’s worth.” He indicated a group of the ship’s passengers who were watching the port get smaller in the distance. The bride was instantly recognizable by her bright red hair. She stood next to a tall, dark-haired man who Dean figured was her fiancé. He had a hand on her waist protectively, as if one of the swarthy Greek sailors would steal her away. She was quite a looker, though, so Dean couldn’t blame him. One of the bridesmaids laughed at something he said; she looked like a witch cackling.

“I’m going to head down to the engine room,” Dean said, turning his attention back to Benny.

“Bad idea, Brother,” Benny warned. “You’ll do much better in the fresh air with your seasickness and all.”

“I’m not seasick.” Dean crossed his arms like a petulant child.

Benny gave him a disbelieving look.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice made Dean jump. The fiancé was addressing Benny. “Captain, Anna would like to be shown to her cabin.”

“Of course, Mr. Milton,” Benny said. His entire manner had changed when addressing his passenger. “I’d be more than happy to take your sister to our master cabin, myself. Will you accompany us?”

Dean had been wrong, then. This square wasn’t the lucky fellow about to marry the pretty redhead; he was her brother. Up close, his eyes were the color of the water they were sailing through, if you looked past the horn-rimmed glasses that sat on a very straight nose.

“I’d rather stay on deck, thank you. My parents and Miss Malbrand”—he indicated the witchy brunette—“would also like to be taken to their cabins.”

“Miss Malbrand is sharing a stateroom with your Aunt, I believe,” Benny replied, still in his respectable captain voice. If only this rich bastard could have heard the lewd things that Benny used to joke about in that thick accent.

“Yes, but she would also prefer to stay on deck.”

“Very well,” Benny said. He gave to Dean a nod and a questioning eyebrow.

“I’ll be fine, buddy,” Deam reassured him.

Benny left him and crossed to the other side of the deck, where the bride-to-be was still standing. Dean could hear him greet her in the same formal tone, then take her arm and lead the group to the lower decks.

The brother stayed where he was standing, too close for Dean not to make conversation with him. Fortunately, the other man spoke up first. “You’re American,” he intoned.

“Yes,” Dean answered stupidly.

“You’re a deckhand?” he asked.

“Hey, buddy, I’m chief engineer of this ship.” Dean had yet to learn the sort of automatic respect Benny had for this sort of person.

“Apologies,” the other man said. With that, he took his leave. He tucked into one of the deck chairs and pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. He began scrawling in it, focused only on his writing and paying no attention to the beautiful view.

Dean had a lot to do over the next few hours. A ship engine was a far thing from the car engines Dean knew best, but, since he’d arrived in Athens, he’d spent every moment with this engine. He probably knew her better than the boys who built her. This was her first voyage of the season, so Dean couldn’t help but check her status every few minutes. It helped distract him from the nausea, too, so that may have had something to do with it.

It was soon time for dinner; Dean had received an invitation from Benny to dine with their guests, instead of in the Mess with Garth. He’d only warranted an invite because the passengers included two more women than men, and Dean was needed to even things up. He had had to borrow a dinner jacket from Benny since he’d never planned on interacting with the guests. Benny had seated Dean between the witchy-looking bridesmaid—actually the maid of honor—who was named Ruby Malbrand and the aunt of the bride—a formidable woman named Amara. The bride’s grandmother completed the women at the table. The other men included one of the groomsmen and the brother he’d met earlier, who had a weird name that Dean couldn’t catch and whose own dinner jacket fit him like it was custom tailored to him—which it probably was.

The aunt spent a bit too much time and focus on Dean, rather than her food or anyone else at the table. Dean wished he could have disappeared into the sea, but instead threw himself into the conversation going on between the bride’s brother and Ruby.

She clearly had her eye on the brother— _what was his name? _—and kept placing her hand on his arm as she droned on about wedding details and such. Dean couldn’t help notice that the man had muscled forearms that would rival some of the Greek sailors on the ship—a strange trait for a well-bred so-and-so to have. He wouldn’t have thought raising a pinky when drinking tea would constitute much of a regimen. If they had arm wrestled at the table, Dean wasn’t certain he could have won.__

__“No, I thought Anna should get married at our summer place at the Cape,” the brother was saying._ _

__“Yes, the people here are so…colorful,” the blond groomsman agreed._ _

__“But Crete will be so beautiful against Anna’s hair,” Ruby said, her hand still glued to the brother’s beautiful forearm._ _

__“I’m missing a fortnight of classes for the chance to see my sister’s hair contrasted against the Aegean,” the brother complained. Dean really needed to catch the man’s name again or he was going to drive himself nuts._ _

__The groomsman, whose name was Luke Applegate—easier to remember than the brother’s name—changed the topic of conversation to the brother’s school. “Shouldn’t your term have ended, Castiel?”_ _

___Castiel?_ No wonder Dean was incapable of remembering the name. Who named a child Castiel?_ _

__“Well, yes, spring term has finished, but father says he doesn’t want to spare me another year, so I’m continuing over the summer, so I may complete graduate school sooner,” Castiel said. “I had to do quite the convincing act for my professors to excuse me the time.”_ _

__“I imagine you can be quite persuasive,” Ruby said, in a tone of voice that tried to be seductive. Dean supposed the man should have been quite the catch: wealthy, good family, probably smart if he was in graduate school, and handsome in an awkward sort of way. He adjusted his glasses in lieu of responding, and Dean had to stifle a laugh as he lived up to Dean’s assessment of him._ _

__“Is something funny?” Castiel turned to Dean and asked._ _

__“No,” Dean answered, shifting uncomfortably in his too-large dinner jacket. The blue-eyed stare of Castiel erased any quip on Dean’s tongue about the situation._ _

__That seemed to placate Castiel and he returned to complaining about how inconvenient his own sister’s wedding was._ _

__Dinner continued on with meaningless drivel spoken by the rich and idle. Dean kept his mouth shut as they debated the merits of having twelve Belgian nuns make the lace for Anna’s wedding dress._ _

__As dessert was served, the conversation turned again to Castiel joining his father’s business. “Family is the most important thing,” Castiel said. “I understand that, but it’s very inconvenient timing.”_ _

__At Castiel’s words, the air in the dining room felt stuffy, despite the open windows. Dean excused himself and made his way to the promenade where he could get some fresh air. He didn’t want to think about it, but his mind was full of heat and pain nonetheless. Family was the most important thing, the only thing, but Dean’s family—he couldn’t let himself continue the train of thought. It was still too painful to remember them. He took a deep breath and let the cool breezes off the water calm him; he was nearly there when a voice interrupted his thoughts._ _

__“Have a light?” a female voice asked._ _

__“I don’t smoke,” Dean replied. In the dim light, he could make out the red hair of the bride, Anna._ _

__“Too bad,” Anna replied. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth, and fumbled through her handbag for a lighter. After she found one, Dean looked away towards the open water while she lit the cigarette. The glow on the end of the cigarette taunted Dean as it turned to ash._ _

__“Shouldn’t you be inside? Isn’t this your shindig?”_ _

__She laughed easily. “My father and my fiancé will never notice I’m gone as long as they have each other.”_ _

__“Is he in the family business like your brother?” Dean found it easy to make conversation with her, despite her wealth and status, unlike her stuffy brother._ _

__“My brother? Castiel?” she scoffed. “He’s not in the family business. He’s too good for the family business.”_ _

__“Oh, I thought…”_ _

__“Father would love it, of course, but Cas would never stoop so low. Michael—my fiancé—on the other hand would stoop in any direction my father asked.” She put out her cigarette on the railing, dropped it over the side, and turned to go back to the dining room. “This was nice,” she said over her shoulder. “We should do it again sometime.”_ _

__Dean didn’t return to the dining room. He went back to the cabin he shared with Garth, changed out of Benny’s dinner jacket, and went down to the engine room. He tinkered until long after his sleep shift started, then went to bed, exhausted and shaky._ _

__The next morning, they were already moored at Adamantas by the time Dean awoke, groggy and unhappy. Garth’s berth was empty, since he was on duty in the engine room. Dean quickly dressed and joined him._ _

__“You’re not going to take liberty? I’ve got this covered, sir, if you want to see the town,” Garth said. “They found that statue of the naked lady here, you know. The one with no arms. Of course, it’s in Paree now, so you’re not going to see it here, but there’s nice beaches anyway.”_ _

__“Then you should go,” Dean urged. “Let me take care of any problems on the boat. I’ve got a novel I’ve been wanting to read, and the view is nice. Might help me get my sea legs.”_ _

__Garth perked up. “Gee, thanks, Dean. I’ll get my swim trunks.” He ran off, practically skipping._ _

__Once he was alone, Dean made rounds, checking all the systems and making sure everything was ship shape. That didn’t take very long; the engine was in excellent shape and all systems were working smoothly. He grabbed the book he’d just started and spent the day reading it; he read it all morning and through lunch, he read it on the sun deck until there wasn’t any sun. The port was bustling, and he took breaks every now and then to watch the sailors on merchant ships or the other pleasure cruisers. The passengers ate dinner on the island, but returned to the ship to sleep there while it made its way through the islands to their next stop. Dean gave one last check on his engine, wiping his greasy hands on a rag and tossing it into the bin._ _

__“Hey, sailor.” Anna barred Dean’s way out the door and to the upper decks, a lit cigarette in hand. “I’ve always wanted to say that,” she all but giggled, giving away her young age._ _

__“Miss Milton, you’re not supposed to be down here.” Dean tried his best to get past her without making physical contact, and avoiding her cigarette. “It’s dangerous—and filthy.”_ _

__“Don’t you think I’m pretty?” she simpered._ _

__“You’re beautiful, but you’re going to be married—in a few days, I might add. Don’t you love your fiancé?”_ _

__She smiled sadly. “No, but he’ll give me a good life, and that’s more important. What I’m looking for is someone to give me a good night.”_ _

__“Anna!” Castiel came barreling down the passageway. “What are you doing down here? You’re not supposed to be down here!” Then he caught sight of Dean, and his face hardened._ _

__“Cas, this isn’t your business.” As she spoke with her brother, the bravado faded away. She hid her cigarette, and took her brother’s hands. “Pretend you never saw me and go back to your cabin. Don’t I deserve one nice thing before I’m served up as breeding stock to the highest bidder?”_ _

__“Anna, go back to your cabin,” Castiel demanded. He looked dangerous, and she quickly complied. He turned to Dean. “If I see you around any member of my family, I will destroy you. You tell anyone about this and ruin my sister’s reputation, I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”_ _

__“Yes, I understand,” Dean responded. He shoved his way past Castiel to make his way to his own cabin and forget any of this had happened._ _

__Two hours later, Dean was woken up by the bell ringing an alarm._ _

__Garth jumped out of bed. “Fire,” he shouted._ _


	2. Chapter 2

There was a cacophony of sound and movement on the deck of the boat. Smoke billowed out of the hold as the fire burned below. The members of Castiel’s family and the bridal party stood around on the sun deck in various states of dress: coats thrown over nightgowns, hastily pulled on slacks, bedroom slippers on the wrong feet. In any other circumstances, it would have been funny to see them such arranged, but this was a serious situation.

“At least get the women and elderly into a lifeboat,” the first officer was telling the captain.

“This isn’t the Titanic,” Luke complained. “I’m not going to be left behind to die, and I have no experience fighting fire. Isn’t that what you have all these deckhands for?”

The captain ignored him, but turned back to his first officer and said, “All our passengers should get into the first life boat, which we’ll let down and tether until this thing is put out. Lower the other one to the embarkation deck for the crew just in case.”

The first officer headed to the davits to do as he was ordered, and the captain left them to oversee the firefighting. The rest of Castiel’s family lined up eagerly, each hoping to be the first on the lifeboat. Castiel rushed to follow the captain, however.

“Sir,” he began. “I’d prefer to help your crew fight the fire. I’m able-bodied and as experienced a sailor as anyone on this boat.”

The captain levelled him with an imperious stare. “Mr. Milton, I’m not going to do that to your father. If you’re such an experienced sailor, then I can leave you to take care of your family and don’t have to spare an officer for the lifeboat. You’ll all be tethered to the boat, and we’ll put the fire out before bringing you back in.”

He didn’t wait for Castiel to make another argument, and headed towards a dark corner of the deck. Castiel followed to plead his case once more. His mother, sister, and aunt had more than enough young men to soothe and placate them; Castiel was extraneous.

“Dean,” he heard Benny say. “Why don’t you go and help get the lifeboats ready, brother?”

“Benny,” Dean’s voice replied shakily. “It started in the engine room. This is my fault. It’s always my fault…”

“It’s not your fault, brother. Nikolaos was on duty; he should have gotten it under control before it spread.”

“I can’t…” Dean mumbled.

“We’re putting the passengers in the lifeboats, Chief. You can join them. It’ll be fine.”

“No, I want to help.” He stood up and Castiel caught a glimpse of haunted eyes as he passed through the emergency lights.

The captain turned around to follow, only to find Castiel still standing there. “You,” he commanded. “Get in the lifeboat with your family. Now, before your father takes up suit.”

Castiel could see no other recourse and did as he was ordered, but his thoughts were of the chief engineer and his breakdown. If the fire had started in the engine room, it may have been when Anna had been making her ill-advised trip to see Dean. The smell of tobacco had been mixed with the smells of oil and fuel in the engine room, and there were any number of flammable items to be found in a ship’s engine room. His ridiculous, immature sister and that vile habit!

“Castiel,” his mother cried out, fear tinging her normally assured voice. “Get in this lifeboat!”

“I’m coming, mother,” he replied over the din of the firefighting.

He was the last of the wedding party to get in the lifeboat. It fit twenty people, fortunately, but only if the occupants stood. The men let the women sit, and packed more tightly for their sacrifice. The lifeboat was lowered and bounced in the water as it hit the surface. The rowed until their combined effort took it to the limit of its tether. From their new vantage point, Castiel could see the amber light of the flames licking at the deck. The fire was spreading and the wind was picking up, spreading flame further and threatening the very integrity of the vessel.

A collective shudder ran through those assembled.

“My dress!” Anna cried. “My hope chest!”

“Anna, calm down,” their father admonished.

“They’ll go up in flames,” she cried. The contents of the box were family heirlooms, the collected treasure of generations of Miltons.

“I’ll retrieve them,” Castiel offered. It was an excuse to do something—anything—to be helpful. Perhaps, on Castiel’s return, the captain would allow him to help fight the fire as he should have been allowed.

He, Luke, Michael, and Inias rowed the lifeboat back towards the boat, and he climbed and hoisted himself onto the deck. The crew were too occupied fighting the fire to notice him duck below deck. The fire had not yet reached the cabins, fortunately, as he was certain to be trapped if it did. He went to his own cabin first, grabbing some of his most beloved books. If they were to be floating in a lifeboat until rescue, he’d rather have something to calm his family and fill his own time. He then made his way to the master cabin, where his sister’s luggage still sat waiting for her marriage. Her large hope chest held her wedding gown, and other items a young bride would need. He tucked his books into the empty spots, around white satin and lace, and removed the precious notebook from his back pocket and tossed it in with its fountain pen. He lifted the trunk by its middle, as the two handles on the sides were too far apart for one person to carry. It was heavy, but not unmanageable, as he carried it up to the deck.

He arrived to a nearly empty ship. He could hear Captain Lafitte’s voice shouting, “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

He set the trunk down and scurried to where the second lifeboat was being let down with the entirety of the crew. Their angle was such that they wouldn’t be able to see him until they reached the water. He’d have to jump into the water, but not until they’d cleared the boat, as he couldn’t see them either. He wasn’t sure there was enough time. While there were no more lifeboats, there would likely be a raft or two on the port side. He lifted the trunk again, and crossed to the other side where he threw it overboard. As it was made of wood, it would likely float, and he’d retrieve it from the raft once he was safe. When he found where they would be stowed, however, the only raft, plus its emergency rations, was gone. It was hopeless; flames had taken over the deck, encroaching on him with their fury. He could feel their heat scorching him, threatening him, and he had no choice but to jump overboard and hope for the best. He stowed his glasses in his front pocket and dove over the side.

The light from the fire danced on the waves as Castiel swam towards the trunk. It had drifted a distance away, but having any flotation device would be better than none. He’d have to swim around the ship to find his family on the lifeboat. He was capable, of course, but it would be tiring and dangerous as the wind had picked up. Suddenly, arms grabbed at his torso, lifting him by his underarms.

“You idiot,” a gruff voice said, as Castiel was pulled from the water into the missing raft.

“Dean?” Castiel retrieved his glasses from his pocket, put them on still wet, and recognized the engineer in the light from the fire. He was grateful to see the other man, though surprised that he hadn’t escaped with the rest of the crew. “Why aren’t you in the crew lifeboat.”

“It was…uh…a tight fit,” Dean stammered. “You’re lucky I took the raft instead. What were you thinking?”

“My sister needed her hope chest.” He indicated the trunk still floating in the water next to the raft. He took the tether that had held the raft to the burning boat and attached it to the handles of the trunk, first one, then the other.

“And you just went back onto a burning ship to grab the fine china and linens?” Dean asked. His eyes reflected the bright orange of the fire, making him look otherworldly and dangerous.

Castiel huffed. “All those things are stowed safely at our home in Boston. This only holds the things she needs for the wedding and the wedding night and some family heirlooms.”

“Well, as long as her white silk teddies are safe,” Dean quipped. Castiel noted he never looked towards the fire, so he probably hadn’t noticed how far they had drifted from the boat. 

“Despite the setback, my sister is still getting married when we get to Crete,” Castiel said. “This is a busy sea, there will be a boat to pick us all up by morning. Believe me, losing her wedding trousseau would be a much greater tragedy than losing this boat.”

“Tell that to Benny,” Dean growled.

“Who’s Benny?”

“Captain Lafitte, you self-centered pompous idiot!”

“I understood he was only captain and that the boat belonged to his father-in-law,” Castiel reminded him.

“ _He’s only captain_ ,” Dean mocked.

“As of now, there has been no loss of life, and there is little likelihood to be. Insurance should cover the cost of the boat.”

Dean didn’t respond. He got the same glassy eyed stare he’d had when the captain had sent him to help the lifeboat. Finally, he turned towards the fire, but he seemed to look through it, like there was something beyond it that only Dean could see.

“We need to rendezvous with the other lifeboats,” Castiel continued, trying to get Dean’s attention. “ _Dean_ , we need to paddle to the other side of the boat. Where my parents are—where Captain Lafitte is. We’ll light a flare to signal we’re safe.”

“Yes,” Dean finally answered. “There should be flares in the emergency kit?”

Castiel crawled to the box, and removed a flare. There were three in total. He set it off immediately.

“What are you doing that for?” Dean growled, grabbing uselessly for the spent flare. “They’ll never see it over the fire!”

“Of course they will. It’s important to give them our location, so they know not to leave.” 

“You wasted one of our flares!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Castiel countered. “I did no such thing. I used one properly, that is all. I know sailing procedure, Dean.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, because we’re not in that position anymore.”

Castiel looked back to the boat, only to find it further away than it was only a few moments earlier. The waves were carrying them away from his family. “Grab a paddle and row—no, the other way—Dean!”

Dean’s response was garbled as the raft upended and dumped them both into the sea.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean should have let the bastard drown when he had the chance. Now they were both going to die. He clung to the overturned raft as Castiel tried in vain to collect what he could of their emergency kit from the water. The stupid trunk, of course, was still floating, upright and unharmed, tethered to the upside down raft. Dean moved to it, so he could hold on to keep balanced and afloat while he fixed the raft. The first officer had told Dean to go inflate it and launch it as a precaution, he just had not expected Dean to get on it and leave. He couldn’t stand the flames, the thick black smoke, or the heat; the memories were too strong and he’d had to get away. He was, of course, being punished for his cowardice in the face of his greatest fear by being stuck with the world’s most pretentious jerk. 

A quick flip and the raft was the right way up again, empty of all emergency supplies and the paddles. Dean called to Castiel, “Get back here and hold this steady so I can get in!”

Castiel swam over, deposited a few things in the raft, and actually did as he was told for once. Dean hoisted himself into the raft after two unsuccessful tries.

“Distribute your weight,” Castiel ordered as he draped his arms over the side of the raft.

“What?”

“Lie down, or else I might tip us over again getting in.” 

Dean looked him over—at least what he could see—and they were probably within fifteen pounds of each other’s weight. “That wasn’t a problem when I hauled your soggy ass up the first time.”

“The emergency kit was still in the boat, then. Now it’s at the bottom of the Aegean. I’m going to put all my weight on this side, and the balance will be off.” 

Castiel was probably right. Dean begrudgingly complied, lying spread eagle in the boat. He couldn’t see what Castiel was doing from the angle, until his weight was on top of Dean. “Hey,” Dean shouted and tried to extricate himself from underneath the other man. 

In doing so, he almost upended the boat again. It was pure luck that they remained floating in the struggle.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Dean growled and crawled to one side of the raft, so he made no physical contact with Castiel.

“Don’t overturn the raft again, and it won’t be a problem,” came the cold answer.

Castiel took stock of what he had been able to retrieve, but Dean couldn’t see anything. He begrudgingly crawled to the other side of raft, so they were sitting next to each other.

“What are we supposed to do with one oar?” Dean complained. “The flare is wet and useless.” They’d also retrieved a package of bandages and the metal lid to the box. 

“It’s better than nothing,” Castiel sighed.

“No water?”

“No water, no food, no shelter.” Castiel tossed the bandages to the floor of the raft angrily. They bounced once before rolling back against Dean’s leg.

“What’s in the trunk? Other than not-so virginal white underthings?” Dean joked. 

“Things a bride needs. Shoes? I don’t know. It’s dark and I was in a hurry when I took it. Her dress. Some family things. A few books of mine.”

“Well, as long as we’ve got books,” Dean sneered.

“Books can be very useful. The written word is an endless wonder.”

“She didn’t pack any snacks for the wedding night?”

“There’s probably a pack of cigarettes, if you’re desperate,” Castiel deadpanned.

A breeze ruffled the waves around them and the raft bobbed in them.

“Jesus, I’m cold,” Dean said, wrapping his arms around himself. “My clothes are soaked through.

“The wind’s picking up,” Castiel remarked. “I can barely see the boat anymore.”

Dean pulled off his wet undershirt. It stuck as he tugged it over his arms.

“What are you doing?” Castiel stammered.

“I’m wet and I’m cold,” he grumbled. He wrung out his sopping shirt over the side of the raft. He could hear rather than see the amount of water, and, once he could hear nothing over the sound of the waves, he pulled the shirt back on. “You should do the same thing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean rolled his eyes, and unbuttoned the fly of his blue jeans. He was regretting pulling them on in his haste to get dressed rather than his lightweight uniform pants. They were much more unwieldy than the shirt to wring out, so he did what he could and laid them out in the bottom of the raft. He could deal with soggy shorts.

He was exhausted. The adrenaline of the fire, of saving Castiel, and of nearly losing their raft had started to fade, and the fact that he had been pulled out of bed after no more than an hour of sleep had caught up with him. He started to drift off where he sat until he was woken up by the sound of dripping water.

“What?”

He could feel Castiel frowning at him. “I’m taking your advice and wringing out my clothes. We’ll probably be found by morning. I assume the Captain made a distress call before abandoning ship, and these are busy shipping lanes. Still, no reason to catch pneumonia.”

The moon had come out and illuminated their raft. Castiel was not putting his clothes back on and Dean could make out his bare arms and shoulders in the silvery light. “Aren’t you going to get redressed.”

“They’re still wet, and they’re not going to dry in the dark and the damp. I’ll put them back on for propriety’s sake when we see the search lights.”

“Or the sun.”

Castiel gave him a look that, even in the dim light, kowtowed Dean; he probably gave the same look to misbehaving servants who brought him lukewarm tea. 

“Is it a problem?” Castiel sniped nastily. “You’re in your underwear as well.”

“Alright, see, one fella in his underwear is A-OK, but two fellas in nothing but their jockey shorts—that starts to seem a little fishy.” It wasn’t just that Castiel was so handsome, but he was radiating heat in the cool night and Dean had to stifle the urge to nuzzle into it.

“I see,” Castiel said coldly. “Surely your strict rules about such things are laxer in situations such as this.”

“I suppose,” Dean replied. He didn’t argue; he was too tired to push the point. They were less exposed than Garth would have been on the beach that morning. He let himself relax, sliding down so his head leaned against the side of the raft. “Gee, would you look at those stars!”

Castiel slid down to join him—Dean didn’t register a protest—and looked up at the clear, brilliant sky. “Can you navigate by them?”

“Me? No. Benny probably can, but I’m no sailor.”

“Then what are you doing working on a boat?” Castiel asked, reaching an arm back to cradle is own head. Dean could feel the tips of his fingers accidentally brush his own shoulder.

“I’m a mechanic—I work on cars. I…” Dean hesitated. His situation was none of Castiel’s business, and the fire on the boat had already brought up too many memories. “I ran into a bit of bad luck.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Benny and I have known each other for years, so he gave me a break.” Any more discussion of the subject, and Dean would have to talk about things he didn’t want to. “Can you navigate by the stars? Where are we headed?”

“A little. I do have a sailboat, but I usually take it out for the day. We’re drifting east. A little south.” He pointed up at the night sky. “That’s the north star. It’s the one constant in the sky.”

“I know the north star,” Dean grumbled. “Every idiot knows the north star.” 

Castiel harrumphed amusedly. “Do you know the constellations?”

“No.”

Castiel pointed again to a formation of stars in the sky. “Do you see how they make a square? That’s Pegasus, the winged horse caught and tamed by Bellerophon.”

“It doesn’t look like a horse.”

“Turn this way,” Castiel said, as he manipulated Dean to lean towards him, making contact with Castiel’s shoulder. “That’s the head, those are the front legs, and the square is the body.”

“Still doesn’t look like a horse,” Dean grumbled. “The stars are pretty, though. Must be a million of them up there.”

“Yes,” Castiel mused. He began to recite something: 

> This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,  
>  Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson  
>  done,  
>  Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the  
>  themes thou lovest best,  
>  Night, sleep, death and the stars.

“What was that?” Dean asked. Castiel’s deep, melodious voice made the words dance like the moonlight on the waves. 

“ _Leaves of Grass_. Walt Whitman,” Castiel murmured, as if speaking aloud would break the spell he’d cast.

“I’m sorry?” Dean asked.

“A poem by a very famous American poet,” Castiel explained. “A very small portion of it, however.”

“Oh, it’s nice,” Dean said simply.

“Yes. The greatest American poet would be very pleased to hear you say that.”

“Was that sarcasm?” Dean asked. He genuinely wasn’t sure.

Castiel smiled mysteriously, but didn’t answer, so Dean let it go. Castiel was looking at the stars again, so Dean did as well. The light of the milky way became his nightlight as the raft gently rocked him to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel was comfortable. It only occurred to him that he was not supposed to be comfortable when his pillow moved—and yelled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean wrenched himself away from Castiel, causing his head to drop against the rubber of the life raft. The boat swayed jerkily in the water at the movement.

Castiel adjusted his glasses where they had gone askew. “I was asleep,” he said, sleep making his voice raspy and rougher than normal.

“And that makes it okay for you to…drape yourself over me?” He had crossed to the other side of the raft, sitting up at Castiel’s feet.

It all happened at once. Dean froze, staring off the side of the raft as if hypnotized, just as Castiel realized they were no longer moving. They were still swaying in the water, yes, but as if they had dropped anchor.

“Land,” Dean cried. He bounded out of the raft onto the beach, where he dropped to his hands and knees and kissed the sand. He was, of course, still in his undershirt and shorts, but Castiel only let his eyes wander to his broad back and slim hips for a moment; Dean had made it very clear that such behavior would be unacceptable.

Castiel joined him, hoisting the trunk out of the water, where it had caught on some rocks and anchored them on the shore. Towing the raft behind him, he pulled it to where the trunk could dry out and the raft wouldn’t float away, even at high tide. As he maneuvered it, he noticed the rubber bladder was softer than it should have been. It likely was no longer sea worthy.

Castiel’s eyes searched the long stretch of pristine white sand. The beach showed no signs of human life, but that didn’t mean the island wasn’t inhabited. There were many small settlements on tiny, unknown islands all over the Aegean. Someone might have a telephone or certainly a fishing boat that would take them to one of the larger islands. 

The sun was surprisingly high in the sky, which meant that they had been asleep through most of the morning. Fortunately, this meant the clothes they had laid out in the boat had dried in the sun. Castiel’s slacks and shirt were crunchy from the salt water, but his pulled them on nonetheless. As he was doing so, Dean rose from his devotions and realized his own state of dress. He took the blue jeans Castiel held out for him as if it was Castiel’s fault he was still mostly nude.

“We should find water,” he said, pulling a pant leg over his bare foot. “Food maybe—I’m starving.”

“I’m sure there will be plenty to eat and drink once we find a village,” Castiel answered. His oxfords were still damp, but he laced them up anyway. There were sharp rocks all over the beach, and it was better to be safe rather than sorry.

“Are you nuts?” Dean asked. “There’s no one here. Benny told me there are plenty of deserted islands in this area.”

“Nonsense. Simply because this beach is empty, does not mean the whole island is. It’s still early in the season and this beach is hardly a good harbor. There will be people further inland.” 

“I agree we should check inland, but for berries and a stream, not for people. We can see for a couple miles along the beach, and there’s nothing. No boats, no fisherman—nothing,” Dean said. He spoke so condescendingly that Castiel was seized with a wave of hatred that no handsome face could overcome. “What we need to do.,” he continued. “...is to get some supplies—food, water, a makeshift oar—and get back on the water so we can get picked up by a passing boat.”

“I thought you were happier on land,” Castiel said. “Anyway, that’s not possible. The raft isn’t going to hold us any longer. I think it snagged on the rocks. It’s deflating.”

Dean’s head turned quickly towards the offending object; it had lost more air during their conversation and looked sad and worn in the glaring sunlight.

“Nooo!” Dean bellowed. “I can’t stay on this island! Maybe we can repair it?”

“It’s use is done. It took us to safety. One of the islanders will be able to repurpose it for something else.”

“Cas! There are no islanders!”

Dean was wrong, of course, but the only thing Castiel noticed was the use of his shortened name. Very few people referred to him as Cas, not even his parents; only Anna and his few closest friends used the name. It was an intimacy Dean had yet to earn—would never earn.

In righteous indignation, Castiel swept past Dean up the beach to where sand ended and fertile soil would begin, where people would be growing olive trees, onions, legumes, and potatoes and keeping sheep for their milk while the fishing boats were out—hence why no boats were visible near the shore. Even if he didn’t come across the village, he could head to higher ground and find the inhabitants that way.

“Where are you going?” Dean shouted after him, running over the beach in his bare feet.

“To find people!” Castiel answered.

“Not without me! We’re not splitting up,” he added vehemently. He turned around and walked back to the shore. 

“Now where are you going?” Castiel asked.

“I need my boots. And we need something to hold the water that may be the only thing we find.” He dropped to his knees on the rocks where the trunk was lodged, opened it and began to rifle through it.

“Those are my sister’s things!”

“I’m sorry. When they find our dead bodies on the beach, I’m sure your sister will be comforted by our discretion,” Dean said as he continued to rifle through the contents. “Useless, useless,” he muttered, pulling out Anna’s wedding night lingerie and the white pumps she was going to wear with her dress, which Dean also rudely pushed aside, only to find Castiel’s books. “No one needs this many books, Cas.”

“I only rescued my favorites.”

Dean pulled out Castiel’s notebook; it still had the fountain pen he used to write in it clipped on to the front. “What’s this?”

Castiel grabbed it from him. “None of your business.” He tucked the precious object into his back pocket, away from Dean’s prying eyes and grabbing hands.

Shaking his head amusedly, Dean returned to his pillaging, until he shouted in victory. “Bingo!”

He showed off the silver goblets that were to be used for Anna and Michael’s first toast. “Those are family heirlooms,” Castiel argued.

“Don’t care. Let’s go.”

It was a difficult trek once they passed the beach. Like many of its sister islands, the one they had washed up on was made by a volcanic eruption. The terrain was craggy and steep, and they had not gone a hundred meters before Castiel realized that Dean was right: this was not an inhabited island. The thought gave him little pleasure, as he was certain Dean was the kind of man never to let his correctness go unmentioned. More importantly, Castiel had little experience in the wilderness. His apartment in Greenwich Village had a lady who came in twice a week to cook and do his laundry, and to clean up the mess of papers that had missed the waste basket. Their summer house on the Cape had a full staff, and picnic lunches on his sailboat were far from scavenged berries and roots. He and Dean were going to die on this island, and no one was ever going to find their bones. 

He was going to die at twenty-three with no more experience than fumbling in a supply closet at boarding school where he was uncertain what body part he was successfully grabbing. The greatest irony? His last moments would be spent with the most divine representation of the Id in modern man, a beautiful, unattainable wet dream, as well as an insufferable ass. A curse on Castiel’s perverted ways! Somehow, Dean Winchester was sent here to finally force him to obey his father and marry a woman he could never love and breed children with her in an act that would never please him. 

So lost in his thoughts, Castiel had not noticed that Dean had stopped on their upward journey and collided with him.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“I need a moment,” Dean panted. “This climb is hell.”

“You’re welcome to turn back,” Castiel snarled. 

“Hey, I’m no sissy.” Dean returned the snarl. “I served two years in Korea. My lungs just aren’t what they used to be.”

“Honestly,” Castiel chided him. “You can’t be much older than I am, and your lungs aren’t what they used to be? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Listen, buddy,” Dean rounded on him, poking him in the chest with an outstretched finger. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’ve been through, so shut your mouth.”

Behind his wrath, Dean appeared genuinely injured by Castiel’s comments, and Castiel was humbled in the face of his raw emotion—or his lips, chapped as they were after the night on the water. Castiel’s eyes dropped to them before Dean tore away in his righteous indignation. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Let’s find some water,” Dean said more calmly. “We haven’t had a drink in at least ten hours, and you probably drank seawater while you were bobbing in it, so you’ve gotta be worse off than me. We can’t turn back until we’ve found something.”

They hiked for another half an hour, through dry and unyielding terrain until the incline started to flatten out. They’d reached the highest point of the island. The island was small, and, as Dean had correctly deduced, and their hike confirmed, devoid of human life except their own. There was an even smaller island nearby, also likely uninhabited, and in the distance, they could make out one of the larger islands. Without knowing the distance or direction of their travel, Castiel could not hazard a guess of which one.

“See, down there,” Dean said, indicating an area halfway down the slope. “It looks a bit greener there, doesn’t it?”

Castiel squinted in the glaring sunlight. “Perhaps,” he answered.

“It could be a stream or a gulley that collected the last rain. We should head there.”

The area was not too far from their landing point, nor the route of their ascent, so Castiel thought there was little danger in acquiescing to the request and told Dean as much.

With a role of his eyes, Dean led them down the slope to where there would hopefully be water.

It was not an easier route than their path uphill had been. It was craggy and more than once they had to navigate a dangerous outcropping. It was on one such location that they began fighting again.

“We should have gone down the way we came,” Castiel said. “Then we could have climbed up from the beach.”

“What do you care?” Dean growled back. “You’re not the one practically dying. What do you do?—are you an alpine spelunker in your off time?”

“I…” Castiel hesitated. He had always been involved in athletics; at Harvard, he’d been on the prestigious crew, and he still ran a mile in less than eight minutes, even though his track days were behind him. “I enjoy physical exercise,” he finished awkwardly.

“Oh, don’t we all,” Dean quipped. 

“There’s no need to be crass,” Castiel said in return. “Perhaps if you engaged in calisthenics, you wouldn’t have the problem in your lungs.”

“I told you that’s none of your business, Cas! I don’t have problems because I’m lazy,” Dean said, his voice rising with emotion.

“You could, however, help to ameliorate your condition. I’m not trying to be rude.”

“Well, you sure as hell have succeeded anyway!” Dean punctuated his insult by shoving Castiel with his empty hand. Castiel, clearly having the emotional intelligence of a boy with a schoolyard crush, shoved Dean back.

From his safe position, Castiel was forced to watch as Dean lost his footing and slid over the side of one of the outcroppings.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean fell. As he toppled over what was essentially a cliff, he had two thoughts: one, that he was going to die sooner rather than of dehydration and hunger later, and two: that he wished he could have taken that self-righteous, pompous asshole with him. He grabbed at vines and rocks as he fell, but to no avail, as he slid down at least fifteen feet.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally landed. Instead of the hard, rocky crash he’d expected, he found himself landing in something soft—and wet. He’d fallen in a small pond, surrounded by thick mud. The water tasted like dirt, but it wasn’t salty and it wasn’t stagnant. As the muck around him settled, in fact, he could make out a small patch of clear, bubbling water—a spring. He howled in joy.

“Dean?!” Castiel yelled from above him. “How badly are you injured?”

He ignored the voice, in favor of drinking his fill of the clean, beautiful water. He had never been that thirsty before, not even when he lay in the hospital—alone—without food or drink, every breath painful.

“Dean!?” Castiel shouted again as he came into view. He was climbing down the slope, using rocks and roots as handholds; his tanned, muscular forearms straining with the effort. Finally, he dropped to the muddy ground. “Dean? I thought you were dying. You were screaming.”

“Water!” Dean answered dumbly.

“Oh, dear God,” Castiel replied. He practically shoved Dean aside to get to the spring, bringing hands full of the liquid up to his mouth and drinking. He repeated the action over and over again.

“Hey,” Dean interrupted him. He pulled Cas’s hands away from his mouth. “You can’t drink too much; it’ll make you sick.”

“Is it not good water? It tastes fine,” Castiel said, trying to take another drink.

“You’re hot and dehydrated; too much water can hurt your stomach, or worse, you can die. I saw it in Korea, when another soldier tried to help a kid. We’ll take some back to the beach and drink more later.”

Castiel frowned. “Where are the goblets?”

Dean honestly didn’t know. “I lost them when I fell.”

Castiel’s face grew redder. “I told you they were family heirlooms!”

“What are you blaming me for? You’re the one who shoved me off a cliff! This is all on you, buddy. How do you think the fire on the boat started anyway? Your sister! And you—coming to tell her what to do! I bet you do everything your rich daddy tells you to do!”

Cas shoved him again, the bastard, and Dean fell into the pond again, turning the water brown once more. Dean grabbed for whatever he could in response, and, soon, they were wrestling in the mud. The superior upper body strength should have gone to Dean, as he had the larger build, plus the years of lugging heavy equipment, however, Castiel was all lean muscle and had gained the upper hand. Dean latched on to one of those muscular, sinewy forearms, sliding his hand from wrist to elbow, and a kernel of desire, unbidden and certainly unexpressed, rose up from his groin. 

He tried to tamp it down, but it only bubbled up more intensely, like the spring in which they were fighting, as Castiel regarded him quizzically. His blue eyes were so intense up close; they darkened ominously in the heat of Dean’s stare. Dean grabbed him and shoved their faces together, smashing his own lips violently into the plush pair of the other man. Castiel let out a low grown, muted by Dean’s own mouth, and parted his lips to deepen the kiss.

The desire that had been percolating within Dean rushed forth in a river. Their arms tightened around each other, until their chests were flush and Castiel could tug on the short strands of Dean’s hair. Dean let his tongue flick into Castiel’s mouth, tasting his tongue, feeling it slide against his own obscenely. Someone was moaning like a street-walker, and it was enough of a shock to realize it was Dean himself making the wanton noises that he pulled away immediately. Castiel’s mouth was swollen and pink and his expression was somehow pleased, shocked, and sensual as if he wanted to pull Dean back to him and continue their kiss.

Dean was going to be sick. He pushed himself out of the pond, slipping in the mud, and ran away like the coward he most definitely had never been before. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. It wasn’t natural to feel that way, to want to feel another man’s strong, firm body against his own, to want to taste his mouth, to feel his hardness where he was aroused and wanting. And, oh, Dean was wanting too. His brisk run had sent his erection flagging, but it perked up again at the memories of Castiel’s arms, his strong back, the sensuous glide of his tongue. 

Dean was alone, as Castiel had not—gratefully—followed him. His clothes were wet and muddy, uncomfortable against his hard-on, so he removed them. He wrapped one hand around himself and gave it a firm stroke, it hardened further, twitching upwards towards his stomach. Another stroke and he groaned into the contact. He told himself he was not thinking of Castiel, but of Castiel’s sister, Anna, or Jo back in Kansas, or of Marilyn Monroe’s skirt blowing up in a steam vent. The hand he wished was closed around his penis, however, was as decidedly male as his own.

He reached down with his free hand and cupped his balls, massaging them in time with his strokes. He let one finger brush behind them—he’d always liked that—and that was it. He came over his hand in hot, thick bursts. Over sensitive and overstimulated, he let his cock go, sliding his spunk-covered hand through the thick tuft of hair above it and letting his release mix with the still-wet mud caked on his body.

He walked the rest of the way to shore, boots and underclothes on, but his muddy blue jeans in his hand. The topography had smoothed and flattened out, so the climb was not a difficult one from the beach. He waded into the water and let the waves wash out his clothes and his body. He lowered his shorts to clean away the mud and what was left of his pleasure. He tried not to think about Castiel. 

It hadn’t been his own fault at all, he finally decided. He’d never had that sort of feeling before. Sure, Marlon Brando and Paul Newman were handsome men, but everyone knew that. He’d survived several years in the Army without anything fishy going on, and here comes this rich, obnoxious jerk with his huge blue eyes and indecent forearms and suddenly Dean is a blushing schoolgirl. He didn’t even like the man; he was insufferable.

Dean lay out in the sun alongside his Levis so they’d get dry. It was almost relaxing, sunbathing like the other half did on holiday. Once only the slightest dampness was left, he finally decided to go back to their landing spot on the beach. If Castiel gave him any trouble, Dean would sock him like he deserved.

After a ten-minute walk along the beach, Dean could make out the raft and the trunk where they’d left them. He saw no sign of Castiel, however, so he quickened his pace without hesitation.

“Dean,” a low, rough voice said in surprise. Dean turned towards the sound only to see Castiel rising out of the ocean like that painting, as naked as a jay bird. He looked like he belonged there, tanned and beautiful and otherworldly. He showed no shame in exposing his body, so Dean let his eyes trail down his torso to the thatch of hair and his manhood. It dripped water as it hung there against his thigh, igniting something in Dean he didn’t want to think about. Suddenly, he felt shame enough for the both of them.

“Cover yourself,” Dean stammered, turning around and covering his face with his eyes.

“My clothes aren’t dry yet,” Castiel said. “You’re welcome to stay down the shore until I can dress.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll go hunt for food.”

“Alright,” Cas replied disinterestedly. He retrieved his glasses from a rock near where his clothes were laid out, and put them on. “You should drink more water before you go.”

“The water is halfway up the mountain,” Dean said, his eyes on the horizon and not Castiel’s nakedness.

“I found the goblets. Turn around, Dean.”

“You’re still naked!” Dean yelped as he complied with Castiel’s request.

Castiel merely shook his head dismissively and beckoned Dean towards the slope, where the shadow of the mountain created shade on the beach. He moved a few branches that were lying on the ground to expose a miniature pond full of water. It was no larger than a punch bowl they’d serve at a church social back in Kansas, but it was lined with some leaves and filled with clear, beautiful water.

“This should last us until we’re rescued. This way, we can stay by the shore if we spot a ship,” Castiel explained. He handed Dean one of the silver goblets that he’d dipped into the water to fill up. As refreshing as it was, it did nothing to ease Dean’s real thirst.

“I’ll go find food now,” he said, falling over his feet as he stumbled away. He hiked a bit uphill to look for berries, but it was too early in the season and everything was green and inedible. He found grapevines with tiny, hard grapes and the same leaves Castiel had used to line the water pit. Dean had eaten those stuffed with rice at dinner with Benny and his wife, so he knew they were edible. The grapes would be pretty awful, but they’d fill him up at least. 

As soon as Dean was certain Castiel would have covered his body, he returned to their landing spot. Castiel was, in fact, dressed in his slacks and plaid shirt, crouching on the beach in a half-circle of large rocks. The rocks created a natural windbreak for a fire, which Castiel was obviously trying to start, and were large enough to sit on.

“Food!” Dean shouted happily. He sat on the nearest rock to Cas and emptied his pockets of their bounty. He dropped the grapes, the leaves, and a few greens he was confident wouldn’t kill them onto the rock next to him.

“That’s all you found?” Castiel frowned.

“Hey, this is good eatin’,” Dean said. He’d worked hard for this food, and Castiel had no business disparaging it. “These are a delicacy.”

Castiel shook his head patronizingly and returned to his task. He had attempted to start a fire, but, seeing as how they lacked matches, it was an exercise in futility. He threw the sticks down to the ground in frustration. “Damn it!”

“It's fine. These don’t need to be cooked, and it’s not cold.” Dean was trying to be civil, despite its difficulty.

“We need a fire to signal passing ships, and I want to cook these.” He held up the lid from the emergency kit; it was covered with a few dozen striped shellfish.

“You found clams,” Dean said. All of that foraging and Castiel had a bounty by getting naked and taking a swim.

“I dove for them—and they’re cockles,” Castiel explained. “I had been making another dive when you came back.”

“And you didn’t want to share?” Dean asked.

“Nonsense.”

Dean growled, his anger bubbling up again. “You were going to cook and eat them without me.”

“I wouldn’t have to cook them if I could shuck them. They’re good raw, but I can’t get them open.”

“Poor baby,” Dean said.

“There’s no need to be rude,” Castiel admonished.

Dean wanted to walk away, wanted to forget this idiot with the beautiful eyes and the beautiful arms, but he couldn’t. He’d always been a sucker for big, puppy dog eyes; Sammy used to use them on Dean to get anything he’d wanted. A twinge of grief twisted in Dean’s gut; this was the sort of thing he wasn’t supposed to think about. His past was dead and buried, quite finally, and if he didn’t help Castiel, as annoying as he was most of the time, his future wasn’t going to look too bright. Sammy would have never forgiven him for leaving Castiel unable to cook his catch.

He sat next to Castiel, took the sticks, and started showing Castiel how to start a fire.


	6. Chapter 6

Roasted cockles were a delicacy Castiel hoped to have often in his future. Combined with the unripe grapes, their leaves, and the other greens and things they’d been able to scavenge, they were wonderful, tender and flavorful, the grapes adding tartness. He and Dean had eaten the lot of them with the fervor only starved men could muster. Dean had licked his fingers, his plump lips closing around the digits, and Castiel had had to look away.

Those lips had touched his own, and not fleetingly. That had been a surprise. Dean’s mouth had sought his with more passion than he had sought the sustenance they had only now partaken in. It had been less of a surprise that he had subsequently ran away. They hadn’t spoken about it, as Castiel would have expected, but he no longer forced his eyes away from Dean’s broad shoulders or the bow of his legs.

Dean had gone to “hit the head,” as he’d so eloquently stated, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts and his precious notebook, dried in the Greek sun from their time in the spring. He turned the newly brittle pages, lamenting the places where the water had removed his precious words and filling in what he remembered, until he came to a clean page. The delicacy of his dinner deserved remembering. He retrieved his fountain pen and wrote:

> Your taste of the sea sustains me, the salty brine of you, your tender flesh yielding to my mouth, but firm against my tongue
> 
> If you could hear my words, I’d tell you of your sweetness, how I’d lick you up until I was satisfied with your flavor

Castiel crossed out the last phrase, unhappy with its clunkiness.

> If you could hear my words, I’d tell you of your sweetness, how I’d lick you until I was satiated by your flavor

Better, but Castiel was starting to think that perhaps he was not writing a poem about seafood. The closeness with Dean had started to wear away the barriers Castiel had put in place many years before, lest his father find out his predilections. 

He turned to another clean page and began to write, losing the pretense of his dinner. The words flowed easily, just as their inspiration returned. Castiel looked up.

“What are you staring at,” Dean growled. “You’re not going to start up again, are you?”

Castiel frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The boarding school shit you tried earlier,” he said, as he took his place on one of the rocks near the fire. The sun was setting over the water, illuminating his freckles and the gold flecks in his eyes.

Castiel shook the distraction out of his head. “I’m sorry?”

“You kissed me,” Dean said finally.

“I did no such thing,” Castiel answered.

“Are you saying I imagined it?” Dean sneered in return.

“Of course not, but I am reasonably sure that you were the instigator.”

Dean’s laughter was overly bright and false. “That’s impossible. I’m not a queer.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel replied and returned to his writing. The next lines he wrote were less romantic, tinged by Dean’s attitude, but no less praising. Even when he was angry, frustrating, and accusatory, he was still the most fascinating being Castiel had ever come across. He felt so much, yet repressed so much of himself as well, such as his apparent desire to kiss Castiel. 

Dean grabbed his arm angrily, hard enough to send his fountain pen flying into the sand. “Don’t ignore me,” he yelled, but the emotion in his voice was more desperate than angry. 

“I’d like to get these lines down before I lose the light,” Castiel replied calmly. He would let Dean have his little tantrum, get it out of his system.

“Are you writing something about me?” Dean asked. Again, his tone of voice wasn’t as upset as he probably intended. He sounded curious, perhaps even flattered.

“I’m writing a poem.” Even as they spoke, the sun sank lower in the sky. Castiel had to squint to see anything on the page, even with his glasses—still intact, gratefully—so he put the notebook back in his pocket and turned his focus to Dean. He knew Dean’s secret, had felt his arousal hot and hard against his own in the spring. “You can’t lie to me, Dean.”

“I’m not lying. You’re the one who’s lying—who the hell writes poems?” Dean growled.

“People who are completing a Master’s Degree in Poetry write poems. Why did you think I had a Walt Whitman poem memorized?”

“I thought—” Dean hesitated. “I thought because it was sort of sexy. Do _you_ write sexy poems?”

Castiel let out a laugh. “I feel that poetry is an expression of life; sex is a part of life. I would be a terrible poet if I left it out.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered darkly. His eyes flicked over Castiel’s body, from where his sleeves were rolled up down to his bare feet.

Castiel met his gaze. Their fire was the only light illuminating Dean’s beautiful face, but the lust in his eyes was unmistakable. “Dean,” Castiel breathed.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” Dean shouted and stood up. “I’ve never been a pervert before, and I don’t intend to start being one now.”

“Dean,” Castiel pleaded. “I haven’t done anything to you. You’re perfectly normal—just like me.”

“I’m not like you,” Dean growled. “You may have liked being fucked up the ass at boarding school, but no one ever turned me before, and you’re not going to be the one to try.”

“That’s not the way it works,” Castiel reminded him, but he realized Dean was a lost cause. 

“Fuck you,” Dean said with the same vehemence. “I’m going to sleep further down the beach, as far away from you as I can get. I don’t want to fucking see you until we get off this goddamn island.”

He walked away into the night. Castiel knew better than to follow him, even as he could hear Dean stumble on the rocks in the dark. He let the fire burn out and bunkered down in the beached raft, spending a fitful night under the stars that he now associated with Dean’s freckles.

Castiel awoke with the sun in a mostly deflated raft, still alone as far as he could see. Stripping off his clothes and leaving them in the raft, he crossed the beach barefoot and walked to the water’s edge. Stepping into the water, he relieved himself into the waves, sighing with gratitude at the spring they’d found the previous day. His stomach growled ominously; he’d have to catch breakfast before doing anything else. Seafood and fish were plenty and Castiel was, of course, a strong swimmer, but catching fish with his bare hands was beyond his skill set, especially when he couldn’t wear his glasses in the water. They wouldn’t be on the island long enough to waste the energy crafting a spear for spear fishing, so Castiel would have to make do with diving for shellfish again.

He wondered where Dean was, whether he was awake, and whether he was still angry about whatever was growing between them. His thoughts quickly turned to more pleasant aspects of Dean’s comportment: his long-lashed green eyes, his strong back, his long, bowed legs that Castiel longed to have wrapped around his waist, and his soft, full lips. Castiel’s cock stirred at his lust-filled thoughts. He reached down and gave it a much-needed tug, feeling it harden further in his hand. He let out a throaty moan at the sensation, wishing his own hand were a freckled one instead. 

His sound was echoed by a desperate whine from behind him. He whipped around, cock still in hand, to find Dean watching him from the beach, his own hand pressing against his clothed crotch. He let his eyes wander over Castiel’s naked body, and gave his crotch an obvious squeeze. He was hard in his blue jeans, Castiel was certain, aroused by the sight of Castiel nude and touching himself. Castiel raised his eyes to Dean’s face, and he wore a defiant expression, even as he continued touching himself. Keeping eye contact, Castiel stroked himself again, massaging the head of his cock, and let out another moan. Once again, Dean echoed the sound, if not the movement through his jeans. He let out a huff of annoyance, then undid the button and the zipper of the jeans and touched himself beneath them. Castiel tried to get a better view, but could only make out the blood-reddened head passing through Dean’s fingers.

Leaving the water, Castiel crossed back to where they’d had dinner and sat on one of the large stones from the previous night. On his bare ass, the stone was cold, but not painful, and he turned back to where Dean still stood near the water. Dean hesitated where he stood, before taking a long stride towards Castiel. He sat down on the rocks opposite Castiel and let his blue jeans drop to his thighs, exposing his cock to Castiel’s gaze. It was not dissimilar from Castiel’s own, nearly the same length, and only slightly less thick, with a fat, beautiful head wet with Dean’s arousal, but seeing it sent a thrill through Castiel’s body. He gave his own a rough tug, keeping his eyes where Dean’s hands were repeating the action. A wretched moan escaped Dean’s lips and he reached a second hand to fondle his scrotum. Castiel could see where his fingers brushed the sensitive area just behind and had to quicken his own pace when Dean’s cock released a fat droplet of liquid. Oh, the thoughts Castiel was having!  
The desire to touch, to take, to coax those sounds out of Dean with his own hand—his own cock, his own mouth—was overwhelming. Castiel was greedy for it all, and it was that desire as much as the visual and the movements of his hand that took him over the edge. He spurted streak after streak of white over the rocks and onto Dean’s thigh. Dean, eyes glazed and out of focus from his own imminent release, let go of his own cock and tentatively ran his fingers through the mess. He let out a deep groan and returned to his ministrations, using Castiel’s release to further ease the way. A few more strokes and Dean had joined him, mixing their fluids on his hand.

They sat in silence until their breathing regulated. It was Castiel who spoke first. “I need to dive for breakfast,” he said. His voice sounded different to his ears, rougher and deeper.

“I, uh,” Dean stammered as he redid his pants. “I could maybe find some more grapes.”

Castiel nodded and walked back to the water, still naked, knowing full well that Dean was watching him.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean was a weak-willed idiot! He’d come back to their original camp after a horrible night’s sleep to find Castiel beautifully naked. He looked like he could have been carved out of marble and sitting in a museum if not for his improbable tan. His round ass was a pale olive several shades lighter that ended where a pair of swim trunks would have covered. His physique belonged in an anatomy textbook! No wonder he could dive for seafood and climb down a mountain. Dean watched him for a minute, from behind, his muscular back twitching, until he realized that Castiel was touching himself. His own half-erection sprung instantly to full attention once he heard a moan over the sound of the waves. He hadn’t meant to touch himself, but he was unable to resist. 

He’d never seen another man’s dick hard before. He shouldn’t have liked the way it looked passing through Castiel’s long-fingered hand, leaking, hard, and nearly purple with blood, but he liked it so much that he dropped his pants and masturbated right alongside the other man. It was disgusting and perverted, but Dean loved it so much he nearly sobbed with the joy of it all. He was getting worked up so fast, that when Castiel’s spunk landed on him, he couldn’t have held on any longer. 

Once they’d parted, Dean was left with that boneless relief that always came after an orgasm and the overwhelming guilt that he’d done something immoral that his late father would have hated him for. He couldn’t muster up any horror on his own part, however, as the force of his release has been worth any weirdness. He’d returned to the grape vines he’d harvested from the day before and picked more unripe grapes—they weren’t so bad when they were cooked. He planned on stopping by the spring for a drink when he found something better than that. He scrambled downhill to tell Cas about his discovery.

“I found a cave,” he announced, breathing heavily. “It’s big enough to stand in; it’s cool and safe. Best of all, it’s near our spring.”

Castiel looked up from where he was stoking the fire—fully dressed, unfortunately. “Why would we need a cave?”

Dean swatted at him; it was the first physical contact they’d made since their earlier exhibition. The casual touch was almost more than Dean could stand, but he persevered—this was too important. “To sleep in, idiot. We can’t sleep on the beach another night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean,” Castiel groaned. “We’re going to be picked up by a boat before nightfall.”

Dean looked out on the clear horizon; the water disappeared into the sky without a boat to be seen. There was another smaller island visible in the near distance. It appeared to be as uninhabited as the one they’d landed on. There were populated islands out there, but any island was too far away for the two men to swim to. 

“There are no boats,” he insisted. “They’ll have to search every island in the Aegean to find us. I’m going to be as red as a beet by the time we’re rescued!”

Castiel looked thoughtful, but still didn’t agree.

“It’s near a promontory—we can set up a signal fire,” Dean continued.

“I suppose we could take what’s left of the raft up there in case we have to sleep on the island another night,” he conceded. “Are you certain you’ll be comfortable sleeping in a confined space with me?”

“Oh,” Dean said. He could feel his cheeks blush even through his sunburn. Castiel grinned in response, the bastard.

They cooked the clams Castiel had dug up with the grapes Dean had picked over the fire. All the work it took to survive on the damned island worked up their appetites and their thirst. The water Castiel had collected was depleted as well, having evaporated in the sun, despite its leaf covering, which finally convinced Castiel that they should move to the cave.

Dean led the way. The raft had so little air left in it after a day and night on the beach that they were able to fold it up and carry it on top of the trunk. Inside, along with Anna’s bridal trousseau, were not only their supplies saved from the raft, but some of the larger shells leftover from their meals, and all the wood they could gather from the beach and from the scrubby land they passed through. In his free hand, Castiel carried some coals from the fire wrapped in leaves so that they didn’t have to struggle to start a fire in their new home.

Once they were in the cave, Castiel deemed it sufficient. There was a natural windbreak just outside the mouth of the cave where they rebuilt their fire with some of the wood they’d collected. The rest went to making a larger pile about twenty feet away on the promontory, where they had a good view of the horizon. They’d light it if they spotted a ship on the horizon. Inside the cave, they laid out the deflated raft in a flat area near the back. 

“That’s my sister’s wedding dress,” Castiel said, as Dean grabbed it out of the trunk.

“Cas,” Dean said, shaking the dress out. “Either we’re going to die here and your sister will never see her wedding dress again, or this dress is going to save our lives and she won’t care because she’s found her presumed dead brother!”

“Dean,” Cas echoed his tone. “It was handmade by Belgian nuns. We’re not going to die from an uncomfortable bed.”

“Look,” Dean said as he placed the white, lace dress on top of the raft mattress. “I didn’t sleep last night, and if we don’t get a good night’s sleep, then we don’t have the energy to hunt and gather and all the other things that keep us alive.”

Castiel frowned. He clearly wasn’t happy, but he consented.

Once they’d made the cave their home, they had other things to do. Cas thought he’d make a fishing spear, while Dean had the idea to make a snare to catch one of the rabbits they’d seen darting among the brush. If only he hadn’t left behind his pocket knife in his rush to escape the boat! He could make do with rocks he pounded against each other to make rocks, but it would have been a lot easier to have a sharp knife to cut branches and strips of a silky white nightgown he stole from the trunk. They’d argued about that, too. Castiel didn’t see any reason not to use the bandages they’d rescued from the ocean for whatever string they needed. Dean, on the other hand, thought they’d be fools to waste possibly lifesaving equipment when they had plenty of strong, but otherwise useless fabric around.

Castiel turned out to have a knack for sharpening the volcanic stones they’d collected from the beach. He could get them into thin shards like he had done this his whole life. The smaller broken pieces he used as points for his fishing spear, which was starting to look like the trident that was often used as a symbol on the boats back in Piraeus. They worked in silence, only occasionally offering opinions and advice. It was comfortable, and Dean was starting to forget he was supposed to hate Castiel for his pomposity and for the forbidden beauty of his face and body.

“I was thinking I should catch dinner,” Castiel announced after several hours of work. “You could join me.”

“Oh,” Dean looked up from his snare making. “I was going to set my traps.”

“We’ll do that on the way down. There was that good run near the spring.”

“Yes, but—“ Dean cut himself off. The problem was, of course, that Castiel dove naked, and Dean wasn’t certain he’d be able to control himself. Even more problematically, Dean found himself less afraid of that than he should have been. “Let me finish this last one up,” he finished.

“I’ll help.”

Castiel’s beautiful hands joined Dean’s in turning the last slippery strips of silk into rope and attaching them to the trigger he’d made out of sticks.

“It’s too bad we’ve ruined this thing,” Dean remarked, gesturing to the remains of the lingerie. “I bet your sister would have looked fantastic in this.”

Castiel fixed him with a disapproving frown. “I bet _you_ would have looked fantastic in this. The peignoir is still in the trunk if you’d like to find out.”

Dean could only sputter and blush in reply. It took several minutes and a good long drink from the spring before he was able to go and set his traps. The worst part was Castiel’s pleased grin, which Dean had the sinking suspicion was not from how well his joke had stung. They headed for the likely places to find rabbit with Dean still red-faced and Castiel still smug and set the three snares Dean had successfully made. If they were still on the island the next day—and they would be—Dean would check them in the morning.

“Hey.” Dean finally was able to speak without blushing. “There was a nice cove near where I slept last night, it’ll be easier to fish there, I bet.”

Castiel consented and Dean again led the way. They had to swim out to get around the cliff since the tide was coming in, so they left their clothes safely on the beach where Dean had slept the night before and knew they’d stay dry. Dean tried not to look at Cas, but all that smooth, tanned skin was so tempting that he still got half-hard at the view. Cas didn’t leave his glasses behind, as they’d fashioned a strap out of more of the silk to fasten his glasses around his head while he swam. It was safer that way, and Castiel would have a better chance of catching something if he could see better. They climbed onto some rocks on the other side of the cove instead of swimming all the way to the beach. This way, they could dive directly into the deeper water. Castiel swam like a fish, his long, lean body moving through the water. He came up for air empty handed but caught his breath and dove again. On the fourth dive, he had a fish on the end of his spear. Dean helped him remove it from the tines of his spear, then strung it on a leftover piece of their lingerie-string and let it dangle in the water off the rocks.

Castiel was able to get two more fish before having to rest, so Dean tried to take over. He couldn’t hold his breath nearly as long as Cas could, so he had a much harder time of it. He did manage to catch one small fish before Cas was rested enough to go again. 

“Thank you,” Cas muttered as they both swam in the water. He was too close. Dean could see his cock bouncing in the clear water, so near to his own. He didn’t know what to do; part of him wanted to lean forward and kiss Cas or to rub up against him in the water, but he was carrying a pointy spear covered in fish guts. Castiel, of course, still had that look of smug approval, like he knew exactly what Dean was thinking. “Dean, the spear,” he prompted.

Dean looked stupidly between the spear in his hand and Cas’s outstretched hand. “Of course,” he said, finally realizing Cas wanted the spear and was not lamenting its preventing their coupling, and placed the stick in Cas’s hands.

“I’d like to get two more fish,” he said as he prepared to dive again. Dean scrambled back onto the rocks to watch. 

Castiel only managed to catch one more fish, but it was a big one, so it’d suffice. They used the last of their energy to swam back to the beach where their clothes were still dry. Exhausted and soaked, they laid out on the beach to let the afternoon sun dry them off. Dean’s eyes closed and he started to drift off when the light changed and woke him up.

He blinked up to see Castiel silhouetted in the glow from the sun. “Were you watching me sleep?” he growled.

“Yes,” Castiel answered in his matter-of-fact baritone.

“Well, it’s weird,” Dean said. Castiel was still naked and still looming over Dean, until he dropped to his hands and knees between Dean’s legs. “Whoa,” Dean protested.

Cas dropped a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Let’s go cook some dinner. I’m starving, and I still want to get some writing time in before nightfall.”

Dean looked up into the shadowed face. “Writing time?”

“Poetry,” Castiel grinned. “This island is very inspiring.” From his tone of voice, Dean was pretty certain Cas didn’t mean the island as much as he meant Dean himself. He tried to force himself to mind, but all he felt was flattered. No one had ever written poetry about him before. Cas helped him up and they both got dressed before taking their fish back to the cave and roasting it on sticks over their fire.

After dinner was eaten and cleaned up, Cas wrote in his little notebook until dark, leaving Dean fidgety and annoyed until Cas dug through the trunk and tossed him a book. It had a drawing like one of the old Greek vases he’d seen at a museum in Athens, and a vague title. He didn’t want to read some stuffy history book about Greece, even if they were trapped on a Greek island.

It turned out to be a lot more interesting than that. It was about a young Athenian man who was a champion runner and—“Cas, just what kind of book did you give me?”

“A good book. You’ll like it,” Cas said with a small smile.

“I already like it, but, Cas, is this a book about homosexuals?”

“Not exactly.” Cas still had that Cheshire Cat grin on his face. “Are you familiar with the ‘unspeakable vice of the Greeks?’”

“No,” Dean said honestly, though he suspected he understood more than he was willing to let on. “But I take it you are?”

That wiped the smile off Cas’s face. “Hardly more than you.”

“What?!”

“My wild days of boarding school shit—as you so eloquently put it—consisted of one awkward fumble in a closet at sixteen and what has happened on this island.”

“Nothing has happened on this island.”

Castiel hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t argue. He returned to his writing, and let Dean explore the world of Alexias and Lysis on his own until he couldn’t take it any longer.

“So you’re not lying with beautiful men every night in your bohemian loft?” he finally asked.

Cas set down his book and pen and focused on Dean, a wistful look on that handsome face. “My father expects certain behaviors of me. Once I finish with school, I shall go to work at my family’s business, marry a woman of wealth and propriety, and give my father an heir to replace me. To take a lover, or multiple lovers as you suggest, would fly in the face of everything he wants of me.”

“Come on, man,” Dean said. “Pleasing your dad isn’t worth a life of misery.”

“Oh?” Castiel countered. “And you have never sacrificed your happiness to win your father’s approval?”

“My dad’s dead,” Dean admitted. Such a simple phrase, yet it carried so much baggage. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, and he sounded like he meant it.

Dean waved his concern away. “He hated that I went into the Army instead of the Marines like him, though.”

“In Korea?”

“Yeah, you?”

“School.” For the first time in several minutes, Castiel looked away. He regarded the darkened sky and the fire that had become their only light. “We should turn in. We’ll check your traps in the morning.”

Dean followed Cas into the mouth of the cave, and lay down next to him without complaint. He was exhausted and sleep was the only thing on his mind as he removed his blue jeans. Castiel offered his navy cardigan as a pillow for Dean, which Dean took gratefully, while Castiel bent his arm to support his head. Dean rolled onto his side so that he could pretend he was alone and not tempted by the man next to him.

It must have been hours later when Dean awoke, an unfamiliar warmth at his back. Cas was still asleep, but he’d cuddled up to Dean in the night. His left arm was draped over Dean’s waist, palm flat on his stomach, and his front was a hot pressure all down Dean’s back, including—Dean wiggled his ass to confirm what he was feeling was Cas’s hard dick pressed up against Dean’s ass. Cas pushed forward in his sleep in response, letting out a breathy sound that encouraged sympathetic arousal in Dean. He’d never thought of himself in this position, so the arousal was a surprise, but, suddenly, Cas’s hand was too close, and his body too warm, and Dean wanted more—ached for it. He couldn’t give in and instead leaped out of their makeshift bed.

“Dean?” Castiel’s sleep-roughed voice pierced through the dark. As if suddenly realizing his own arousal, he fully awoke. “Did I…?” he asked in panic. 

Dean rubbed at his crotch to ease his arousal. In the dark, Castiel wouldn’t be able to see. “Go back to sleep, Cas. You’re fine.”

“I would never—“ Cas said.

Dean was still rubbing himself through his underwear; if Cas noticed he didn’t let on. “Go back to sleep,” he said, breathlessness seeping into his words.

“Will you come back?” Cas asked. He was starting to drift off again, his words slurring.

“No.”

At that, Cas let out a disappointed huff and became quiet as he drifted back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Dean reads is _The Last of the Wine_ by Mary Renault.


	8. Chapter 8

After Castiel had overstepped bounds, he and Dean had split up the bed materials so it wouldn’t happen again. Castiel took the rubber raft and Dean made a bed out of Anna’s wedding dress, turned filthy on the cave floor and the buttons ripped out for comfort. Dean had ingeniously found a way to use them in improved traps. The rabbits Dean was able to catch, and the greens, small bulbs, and herbs he scavenged were a welcome addition to the fish and shellfish Castiel could catch. They also had harvested salt from the sea, letting seawater evaporate in shells, and using the dried remains to make their food more palatable. Every day they’d check the traps in the morning, eat fresh rabbit for breakfast and, if Dean caught more than two, dry the meat over the fire, then spend a few hours resetting traps, making another spear, or attempting to weave baskets, and fish in the afternoon, again, drying over smoke what little extra they had. After dinner, Castiel wrote and Dean read until the sun went down, then they’d talk about the books Dean was voraciously going through, or make plans for the following day. They had developed quite the routine, though it had been five days and no sign of a boat to rescue them.

Five days, however, that Castiel had been able to keep his hands—and other things—to himself. As the layers were peeled away, Dean only grew more interesting. He was extremely intelligent, able to appreciate novels from _Ulysses_ to _East of Eden_ to _From Here to Eternity_ and discussing them at length. He was able to think of new ways to make their island life easier, and to expand on Castiel’s ideas to make them achievable. His appeal had first been as a blue collar hero and a beautiful specimen of man, but getting to know him had brought forth a whole new appeal, even as the growth of his beard furthered his attractiveness. They’d either get rescued or eventually die on the island, and Castiel had begun to prefer the latter. A life with Dean was worth the hardship. They’d made a lot of improvements, too. They brushed their teeth with sticks and crushed herbs, and the two of them had used large shells to dig a hole big enough to wash their clothes—and themselves—without contaminating their drinking water supply. Fortunately, Anna had packed some scented soap in the trunk. Castiel would spend the rest of his life, no matter where or how long it was, associating the scent of violets with Dean Winchester. 

One of Dean’s best ideas was to improve on the signal fire. As they gathered what wood they could find for their cooking fire, it wasn’t worth letting so much go unused on the chance they could signal a ship that might have been miles away anyway. 

“We have the last flare,” Dean remembered as they combed through the trunk, looking for the bandages to wrap up a small cut on his wrist.

“The flare gun is at the bottom of the ocean,” Castiel reminded him. “That’s nothing but a useless cake of black powder.”

“Exactly!” Dean cried. “It’ll burn slowly, possibly even like a rocket!”

“If it even burns at all.”

“Come on, Cas, don’t you want to get off this island?”

“Yes,” Castiel said after too long a pause. 

His hesitation did not go unnoticed by Dean, whose face went soft. “Cas,” he said softly, “we can’t stay here forever.”

“No, no,” Castiel said. 

“You’ve got your family out there,” Dean reminded him, his voice rough with emotion.

“Yes, of course. I love my family.” Anna, his parents, his cousin Gabriel, they’d all mourn him, or at least his unachieved potential. They’d never been happy that he wanted to study poetry, that he wanted to write poetry, that he wanted to live a free life away from his family doing what he wished, but they loved him nonetheless. Castiel didn’t ask Dean about any family he had to go back to. He’d mentioned his late father, but remained tight lipped on his mother or anyone else, and Castiel never pushed.

Dean, having convinced Castiel to put his plan into action, went about creating a launching system for their makeshift rocket, while Castiel was put in charge of creating a fuse. The flare would sit on a small pile of tinder and kindling with the fuse draped over it. Since they kept their fire banked when they weren’t cooking in order to save fuel, they’d drop a burning ember onto the kindling, lighting it all and sending the flare into the sky and alerting anyone to their presence. It was a simple solution to their problem, as long as everything went according to plan.

That evening, they’d eaten an amazingly lucky catch of Castiel’s, two spiny lobsters, split and roasted over the fire. It was a welcome change from their rabbit and fish meals, and left Dean in excellent spirits. Instead of their normal evening routine of reading and writing, Dean wanted to talk. More importantly, he wanted to talk about what Castiel was writing.

“Poetry,” Castiel answered simply.

“What kind of poetry? Dirty limericks?” Dean grinned.

“I told you, poetry that reflects the truth of life,” Castiel said.

“You’re just going to have to read me something, then, because I have no idea what kind of poems reflect the truth of life.”

Castiel flipped through his notebook looking for something safe to let Dean hear. He found one he’d written the night they’d cooked their first rabbit. Clearing his throat, he read:

> Why is a thing of fur and flesh so different from a roach  
>  I’d crush with my foot  
>  What do I recognize in you that your death reminds me  
>  Of my own frailty  
>  Your last breath extends my life and yet the regret still makes  
>  your flesh taste sour

Dean’s reaction was to let out a bark of laughter. 

“There’s no need to be rude,” Castiel said.

“No, no, no,” Dean cried, his tone appeasing and desperate. “It’s just—Cas, you are not sitting there every night writing poems about rabbits.”

“Perhaps I am,” Castiel replied.

“Cas,” Dean breathed.

Castiel turned to another page and read:

> I would connect the constellations on your skin with my fingers  
>  Tracing Orion with my tongue—  
>  The taste of him  
>  Salty with your sweat  
>  His home in the sky is nothing compared to the beauty of your cheeks  
>  Your shoulders  
>  The curve of your legs  
>  My hunter—  
>  Make your home with me tonight

Castiel was grateful for the waning light, as his face was surely red with embarrassment. “These are all rough drafts, of course. The first line of the second stanza, for instance, requires further editing. _The beauty of your cheeks_ …It’s messy.” 

“Well, I don’t think you’re talking about my face,” Dean quipped.

“I…uh…” Castiel stammered.

“It’s fine, Cas, if you look,” Dean said. “We see each other naked every day. It’s only natural to look. I mean, uh…”

He trailed off, and Castiel thought perhaps he wasn’t the only one blushing.

“Yes, Dean, it’s completely natural to look,” Castiel said with a small smile.

“Okay,” Dean huffed uneasily. “Well, I guess it’s time to turn in.” He stood up, brushing the dust off his jeans like his clothes weren’t irreparably torn and dirty from their rough life on the island. “You know, the wind is picking up, it’ll probably be cold tonight.”

“I suppose,” Castiel answered.

“We should probably double up for warmth, then.” He held out his hand to help Castiel stand up. The force of standing up drove them together, their chests brushing with each labored breath. “Come on, Cas, let’s sleep.”

Castiel complied, and they rearranged the dress on top of the raft together. Dean lay down first, facing towards the empty space where he expected Castiel to lie. As Castiel joined him, lying on the opposite side so he faced Dean as well, their arms brushed against each other. Dean didn’t move away from the contact, and they fell asleep touching.

They slept like that the next two nights as well, and Castiel found himself sleeping better as a result. He was able to control himself, his lust for Dean tempered by something far tenderer. 

On the third day, Castiel was searching for wood just above the spring when he saw an unfamiliar gleam on the ocean. He continued watching until he was certain it wasn’t a trick of the light, but it was moving.

“Dean! Dean!” he shouted as he stumbled down the hill, going too fast to climb properly.

He found Dean at their cave, putting his own collection of branches into a neat pile across from the firepit. “What is it?” he asked.

“A boat!”

“Holy shit, really?” Dean replied. “Let’s get to the signal!” He started to run off towards the signal.

“Dean, the fire. We need an ember.” Castiel grabbed a shell, and brushed away the ashes looking for the bits of glowing coal he knew would be there. “Where are the embers?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked as he moved next to Castiel, helping him dig through the remains of their morning fire.

“There’s nothing left,” Castiel said. “Get the sticks from the cave.”

“Cas,” Dean said. “It’ll take too long.”

“We have to try.” Castiel let Dean retrieve their fire bow, while he ran out to the promontory to see the boat. He could still make it out on the horizon, but they were running out of time.

Dean arrived with the firestarting setup they’d made out of branches and string after their first attempts to make a fire. They’d only used it a few times, being that they were usually very good about keeping embers between cooking fires. He attached the bow to the stick and started twirling it; the ship was still in sight when smoke started drifting out of the hole in the wood below. If they could still see the boat then the boat could still see them, but time was still not their friend. Finally, Dean got an ember, and they dropped it carefully into the pile of tinder where it sputtered and died.

“What happened?” Castiel asked, bewildered. He felt the tinder pile; it was damp. It hadn’t rained their entire time on the island. “It’s useless. Dean, make another ember; I’m going back to the cave for more.”

“But, Cas—“ Dean was saying, but Castiel ignored him. He found their pile of tinder at the back of the cave. It was all damp—every bit of it. Confused, Castiel went to find more. While good fuel was hard to find, tinder was easy, as the island was full of scrubby plants that had dried out in the May sunshine. He found what he could and hurried back to Dean.

“They’re gone,” Dean said, defeated.

“No, they might still see us,” Castiel said. He dumped his useless pile of tinder on the ground by the makeshift rocket.

Dean covered his hands with his own. “Cas, we’ll waste it if we try now. There will be another boat.”

“But there didn’t have to be,” Castiel said. “What the hell happened?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, packing up the bow.

“Our tinder was wet. Dean, it hasn’t rained. And our fire has only gone out twice—during the windstorm. What did you do?”

“Nothing, I…it was just rotten luck.”

“The first boat we see?”

“Yes,” Dean said, breathless. Castiel had learned his demeanor well enough to hear the lie, to see the fear and desperation in Dean’s eyes, but he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t wait around to hear an explanation, either.


	9. Chapter 9

“Cas, wait,” Dean called after him. He had to make him understand. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, so what had been the point? Their hopes would have been dashed just as much as they were now, and they’d be in the same position. Dean had only helped things along. 

He’d seen the ship long before Castiel had come running. He had even dug through the properly banked fire and rescued an ember to start the rocket. Something had stopped him, however—something that he definitely did not want to talk about, but was there nonetheless. He’d stomped on the embers and thrown them over the cliff, he’d thrown water on the tinder pile and the rest of the tinder in the cave, then he’d straightened his sticks like he hadn’t even noticed. Everything Castiel had accused him of, he had done. He had purposefully and knowingly sabotaged their first chance off the island, and he had no regrets.

What he did regret, however, was Castiel’s reaction. Hell, he was the one who had questioned the whole setup in the first place, even though he was also the one with something off the island to get home to. Dean would let him cool off for a while, then they’d move on. He busied himself with repairing the damage he’d done, gathering fresh tinder to replace what had been dampened and scattered. He took out the fire bow again and started a new fire, then banked it properly. He ate a few pieces of dried rabbit meat; it was chewy and salty, but it eased the sourness in his gut. They had missed their normal fishing time, so there was nothing else to eat for dinner. Perhaps that was where Cas was, diving for mussels clinging to the rocks. His three good spears still leaned against the wall of their cave, so there was little fishing he could do. They’d experimented with using Anna’s wedding veil as a fishing net, but that had failed, and the veil was back in the trunk inside the cave. There wasn’t a lot Cas could do without his gear, and trying to fish without them would have been too dangerous. Dean reminded himself that Castiel was smart and careful, but a sense of foreboding overcame him nonetheless. 

He took off to the beach immediately. Cas still dove naked, so Dean would find a neat pile of his clothes on the beach even if there was no other sign of him. Dean crossed every familiar part of the beach, even stripping off his own clothes to swim to the cove they still favored for fishing. There was no sign of Castiel, and no sign of his clothes. Dean dried off in the sun and redressed before climbing back up to their cave. It had to have been more than two hours since Castiel ran off, and Dean’s worry was starting to escalate. While he still had light to search, Dean decided to climb further up the hillside to see if Cas was up there. He stopped by the spring for a quick drink—in a futile hope that Cas would be there—then continued to climb.

Dean came across a pretty area they hadn’t investigated much, only accessible by a small canyon; there was a clear view of about 300 degrees around of the water. There were a few trees around it, their leaves stripped by the wind, but Dean would have to come back after he found Cas to collect firewood. Actually, it looked like someone already had started to collect firewood. There was a suspiciously neat pile of branches on the ground near one of the trees. 

“Cas!” Dean cried. “Cas!”

There was no answer but the slight echo of Dean’s voice in the canyon behind him. Cas had been here, he was certain of it, but there was no sign of him anymore. Dean took another look around the area before leaving. Castiel must have gotten distracted while gathering wood. He’d probably come up here to get another fire going, hoping that the greater height would make it visible from the passing boat. As he turned to leave, an area at the far side caught his eye. There were broken branches on the shrubs along the edge, and, as he approached, he could make out scuffs in the dirt. His heart in his throat, he peered over the edge, only to find his darkest fears come to life.

Cas was lying on the ground maybe ten or fifteen feet below the clearing. There was a ledge that had caught him; it curved around the shape of the cliff. It wasn’t any further than Dean had fallen a week earlier, but Cas had no pond to catch his fall like Dean had had. He wasn’t moving, and Dean was certain he was dead. He could see blood on the rock, even from the height. There was no safe way down, so Dean backed out of the canyon to find a way onto the ledge from below. He didn’t allow himself to feel any emotion. He’d burned out so much of that the previous year, and Cas would just be one more failure to add to his list. Dean deserved to die on this island, alone and pathetic. 

It required more balance than Dean would have been able to muster without the adrenaline, but Dean maneuvered the narrow parts of the ledge to get to where it widened and where he’d find Cas. Cas was still as Dean rushed to his side. He felt his head, running his fingers through the soft hair, afraid to find an open wound or blood, but his skull was intact, and the only blood came from a small cut on his face, which wasn’t large enough to provide the amount of blood on the rocks. He’d lost his glasses in the fall, they lay on the ground next to him, the lenses shattered, which was probably the source for the cut on his cheek. He forgot for a moment to look for further injuries, and just continued to stroke Cas’s hair. He rolled the man over, letting his head settle in Dean’s lap. Almost as an afterthought, Dean realized he was breathing and starting to stir as Dean continued to run his fingers through his hair.

“Dean?” Cas mumbled, his eyes flickering open.

“I thought you were dead,” Dean whispered. It was only then that he realized his eyes were stinging with tears.

“I hurt,” Cas said.

“You’re bleeding,” Dean told him. “I don’t know where.”

“Perhaps you should check.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Dean admonished playfully. “I could still leave you here.”

“No,” Cas moaned. “I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry about the boat, Cas. I—“

“Our cave,” Cas interrupted. 

Dean pocketed Cas’s broken glasses and half-carried him back along the ledge, and down to their home. He was nearly as large as Dean, so it was rough going, but his leg had collapsed underneath him when he’d tried to walk. Dean laid him down on their bed, and removed his shirt and pants, so that he could tend to his wounds. There was a gash on his leg; it was bad enough that Dean wished Anna had packed a needle and thread in her trousseau, but he had to make do with only the bandages from the emergency kit. He was instantly grateful that they’d used the silky lingerie for their string needs rather than this. He’d have to keep the wound clean and dry because they didn’t have penicillin if Cas got an infection.

They’d been experimenting with boiling water in tightly woven baskets, heating rocks and dropping them in the water like Dean had read about in school. They hadn’t had much luck, so far, with every attempt ending with the basket leaking and burning before anything boiled, but Dean had been experimenting with resin and his prototypes should have been dry already. He needed to clean the wound, and water from the spring wouldn’t be clean enough. He stoked the fire back to life, tossing in the stones they’d collected from the beach only the previous day. He needed to collect water from the spring, so he went back into the cave to check on Cas before leaving.

Cas was awake, but stirring fitfully and panting. “Hey, sweetheart,” Dean said— not giving a second thought to the term of endearment he subconsciously used—and he placed a hand on Cas’s bare shoulder; his skin was cold and clammy. “I’m going to get some water to clean your leg.” In his fits, Cas had smeared blood all over the white dress below him.

“Dean,” he said, his voice hoarse. He rolled towards him, putting pressure on his bad left leg.

“No, no, no,” Dean said and rolled Cas back towards the back of the cave. “I’ll be a few minutes, tops.”

Dean took both the sealed baskets and headed to the spring. It was a few minutes away with an easy climb and he could carry them both back without too many problems. The baskets seemed to be working, and he was able to drop the hot rocks into both of them. He’d have to boil the bandages before he could use them; they’d dry quickly in the warm May evening if he cut it into shorter lengths, and he’d use the other water to clean the wound in the meantime. He had to add more hot rocks to each container to get them to boiling, but eventually, he was able to sterilize the bandages. He spread them out on the rocks, weighing down with smaller stones so they wouldn’t blow away; it wasn’t perfect or especially clean, but it would do. He’d let the rest of the water cool until it wouldn’t burn Cas. It had already been too long, but he wanted to do this right; Cas’s life might depend on it. He sat in the cave, keeping Cas awake with stories his mother had told him when he was a kid, about werewolves, ghosts, and other monsters.

“I’m cold,” Cas mumbled. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” Dean said. He dug through the trunk, and came out with the one piece of Anna’s lingerie they hadn’t ripped up, the silky peignoir. He tossed it over Cas’s prone form, and did not take a moment to admire the contrast between the fine silk and Cas’s muscular, sinewy, tanned body.

Finally, he felt he was ready to clean the wound. Cas was still conscious thanks to Dean’s terrifying family stories, and he moaned as Dean poured warm water on his wound, washing out the dirt and debris his fall had forced into it. “I know, I know, sweetheart,” Dean reassured him. The bloody water ran into the other basket Dean had set beneath Cas’s leg to protect their bed from further soiling. Not that it mattered anymore. If Cas needed medical attention, then Dean was going to find every ship in the Aegean and get them off the stupid island. He wasn’t going to fail Cas if he could help it. He knew what the risks were; he’d had to do some field medicine in the Army when the medic was busy with someone else, and his buddy was bleeding next to him. The gash was big, and Dean truly regretted their lack of sewing things to add a few stitches, but the bandages had dried out quickly. Dean used one strip tightly to close the wound as best he could, then added another strip to absorb blood and keep it clean. It would have to do. The cut on his face wasn’t big enough to be able to do anything but clean it and hope it didn’t scar his handsome face.

Dean disposed of the dirty water and left Cas to wash the baskets at their bathtub and refill them at the spring in case he needed more later. When he arrived back, he took a few embers from the fire, banking the rest, and moved them to the mouth of the cave to keep Cas warm. He climbed back into the cave to find Cas asleep. It was probably okay, but Dean didn’t have the medical knowledge to know for sure. He pulled off his jeans, lay down next to him, and wrapped him in his arms, keeping him warm and safe.


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel awoke to a dark cave and a warm body pressed against him. His leg hurt and his head hurt and he was thirstier than he’d ever been, but he didn’t want to move. His pillow was Dean’s left arm, and their faces were close enough that Dean’s breath tickled against the week’s growth of Cas’s beard. Dean’s other arm was thrown over Castiel’s waist; it tightened around him instinctively as he stirred. The comfort of their closeness plus the grogginess of his head had made him forget Dean’s betrayal. He tried to move out of Dean’s arms, to stand up and get away from him, but the pain in his leg hobbled him as soon as he made the attempt.

“Hey,” Dean said groggily, tightening his arm around Castiel’s waist. “Stay here, I’ll get you what you need.”

“I need to get off this island,” Castiel hissed.

“I know.” Castiel couldn’t see Dean’s face in the dark, but his voice was soft and apologetic. “Cas, let me start a fire. You need to keep warm.”

“Is that why I’m wearing _this_?” Castiel fingered the silky material draped over him.

“You were cold—in shock.” Dean let go of him, finally, and left the cave. Castiel felt like he had a hangover; his head was fuzzy and his limbs were heavy. He could see Dean hovering at the mouth of the cave, then a small fire sprung to life, illuminating him and the rest of the cave. Dean moved inside the cave, and returned with one of their goblets filled with water. “Drink,” he ordered.

Castiel did as he was told, and the water soothed his dry mouth and helped to de-fuzz his brain. “Where are my glasses?” he asked, realizing the fuzziness was somewhat caused by his bad eyesight.

“Uh, Cas,” Dean said and presented Cas with the shattered remains of his glasses. One lens was completely gone, while the other was cracked in the shape of a spiderweb. The temples were intact, so Castiel could use the one remaining lens to see if he really needed to. Without them, he could see clearly within the cave, even with the only light coming from the fire, but no further than that. It was a setback he couldn’t afford.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You don’t remember?” Dean said. He was puttering around their food storage, with his back to Castiel.

“I remember the boat, and our fight,” he said, straining to cut through the fog. “I climbed higher to see if the boat was still visible, and I was gathering wood for a signal fire—I found a grove of trees we hadn’t yet discovered. Did I fall? I piled the wood, then went to gather tinder, and I lost my footing. The dirt was soft.”

“I found you at the bottom of a ledge, bleeding and unconscious.” Dean returned to the fire, still not facing Castiel, and fiddled with something Castiel couldn’t see.

“What are you doing?”

“Making soup,” Dean answered. “You need fluids, and I need food. Do you need more water?”

“I can get it,” Castiel said, sitting up and letting the peignoir fall.

“Nope,” Dean said, turning from his cooking to put a hand on Cas’s ankle. “I’ll get you more water—our sealed baskets work, by the way. So do the hot stones. I boiled bandages for your leg.”

“My leg?” He reached down to feel for the achy spot on his left leg, only to find it wrapped in bandages. The pressure hurt, so he pulled his hand away, brushing Dean’s which was still on his ankle. Dean’s blush was visible even in the dim light, but he took his hand back and returned to his work.

“I’ll let that soak before I heat it,” he said, brushing his hands together. “Dried rabbit and fennel soup for a very late supper.” He took the goblet from Cas, and refilled it from the other basket of water he had stowed near their food storage. As he drank it too quickly, a cough rose from his throat. “Is the smoke too much? I shouldn’t have moved the fire into the cave so much, but you needed to keep warm.”

“It’s fine. I’m hungry.”

“Good. That’s good. You’re going to be fine, Cas. I thought, for a while…” Dean trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish his sentence. The very fact that Castiel had so few memories of his fall or of Dean’s rescue and treatment was evidence enough for the seriousness of his injuries. If Dean hadn’t saved him, Castiel surely would have died. Nevertheless, he couldn’t make himself thank the other man, given that it was all Dean’s fault to begin with. Even as Dean moved back next to him, throwing his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Castiel couldn’t forgive him. Dean nuzzled into his neck, placing a small kiss there. It wasn’t especially sexual, but it held an intimacy that Dean hadn’t been willing to express before. Castiel could feel his heart softening against his will. “I should finish the soup,” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. He hadn’t eaten since their grilled rabbit breakfast, and the day had been eventful, to say the least. Dean returned to his cooking with a cheerful grin, picking up a rock from the fire with a forked stick, and dropping it into his basket; it sizzled appetizingly. Dean tended the soup for nearly half an hour, checking on Castiel with nearly as much attention. 

“You can cook,” Castiel marveled.

“Yes, I can,” Dean grinned. “My mother taught me. I used to stand on a chair next to the stove, helping her stir the pot. Man, what I wouldn’t give for some of her food now: meatloaf and potatoes—less meat than loaf during the war—her pie. My ma made the best pie. I haven’t had her pie since—“ 

He stopped talking, and Castiel could see the pain in his handsome face. “Peanut butter sandwiches,” Castiel offered.

“Your mother made you peanut butter sandwiches?” Dean asked, his pained face fading to something softer and amused.

“No, but my nanny did. They’re my favorite food. I could eat them every day. Actually, I do.” He grinned sheepishly. “It’s the only thing I can make.”

“I figured you’d like caviar and champagne.”

Castiel shrugged. “I’ve never fit in with my family, I suppose. My life suits me. Perhaps it’s as much of a privilege as their multi-course meals, but sitting in a café, writing—it’s my dream. I’d like to publish, and perhaps teach someday. Inspire the next generation to throw away everything my generation has done the way we’ve thrown away the last generation.”

“Except Whitman?”

“Except Whitman.”

The air grew thick, and not with smoke. They’d been coexisting for so many days, ignoring the attraction between them in favor of survival. Suddenly, the intimacy they’d shared seemed impossibly large, looming over Castiel like a storm cloud.

“Soup’s on,” Dean said, breaking the spell. He brought the basket, hot stones removed, to where Castiel still sat on their bed. He dipped a cockleshell into the liquid and brought it to Castiel’s lips.

“I can feed myself, Dean,” Castiel complained, the soup hot against his lips.

“Humor me.”

Castiel consented and let Dean feed him scoop after scoop of the broth. He’d flavored it with wild sage and thyme, and added the tiny, out of season fennel bulbs he’d scavenged a few days before. It was almost delicious. The previously dried rabbit was still tough and rubbery, and the broth would have been better thickened, but it was sustaining. However, Dean was taking very little for himself.

“You should eat more,” Castiel reminded him.

“I’m fine.”

“ _Dean_.”

He took a scoop for himself, and, as Castiel nodded in approval, continued eating until the two had finished the soup together. 

“Pretty good,” Dean declared. “We should get some more sleep.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the middle of the night, Cas. What else are we going to do?”

Castiel was undeterred. “Why did you sabotage our distress signal?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Dean said, his face going dark.

“Please,” Castiel implored.

“I…” Dean started. “I don’t want to leave the island.”

“But you—?”

“I know what I said, Cas. When it came down to it, I didn’t want to leave. I’ve got nothing out there.”

Castiel shook his head in disbelief. “You have a job, friends. You moved to Greece to work on Captain Lafitte’s boat. People dream about being able to live that life. What do you have here?”

Dean responded by placing an unexpected wet kiss on the spot below Castiel’s ear. He nuzzled his nose into Castiel’s hair and sighed, inhaling the scent of Anna’s violet soap.

“I know better now,” he whispered, his beard brushing against Castiel’s ear and his breath hot. “I was a fool; I can’t keep you safe. I can’t keep anyone safe.”

“You saved my life.”

“I had to,” Dean said, still too close and too warm. 

“Dean, you’re not responsible for saving everyone.”

Dean laid another kiss lower on Castiel’s neck, soft and intimate. “Just you. I already failed everyone else.”

“Who did you fail?” Castiel asked. He ran a hand through Dean’s hair, partly to sooth him and partly because he had longed for the closeness Dean was now allowing him.

“Everyone. My ma, my dad, my little brother Sammy—my whole family.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean whined. His words were mumbled as his face was fully pressed against Castiel’s shoulder and neck. Castiel had never been this close to another person, and it was a heady experience. All his anger about the boat had faded in the light of Dean’s confession. How could he blame Dean for wanting what he too wished for in his heart of hearts? This opportunity was not something he’d ever be able to enjoy back in his real life—holding Dean, feeling his moist breath against his neck, sleeping next to him. 

“Dean, you can tell me,” he said. He placed kisses against the top of Dean’s head, his ear, everywhere he could reach, and Dean sighed against him.

“Christmas Eve—last year,” Dean began. He raised his head so Castiel could see his haunted green eyes. “Everyone was there for the holiday, even my Uncle Bobby. I’d let him take my room, and I slept downstairs on the couch. The wiring was faulty—I should have checked it. I woke up to smoke and flames”—he glanced towards the still crackling fire in the mouth of the cave—“I tried to save them. I tried, but the fire started upstairs, and by the time it reached me... I failed them.”

“You didn’t fail them. You survived.”

“Because I passed out from the smoke, and a neighbor pulled me out.” Dean shoved his face into Castiel’s shoulder again, and Castiel knew he was hiding tears. “I should have died with them.”

Castiel let Dean sob against him, their bodies and legs entwined. It had hardly been six months since he’d lost his family, no wonder he’d been wandering. “I’m here, I’m here,” Castiel breathed into the top of Dean’s head. Castiel held him until the fire died out and the sky slowly began to lighten.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, lifting his head and staring at Castiel with red-rimmed eyes.

“No, I want to know, Dean. I want to know everything about you.”

Dean leaned forward and placed his lips against Castiel’s. Unlike their first kiss, it wasn’t fueled by anger or an unspoken physical attraction. There was tenderness, curiosity, and something Castiel was too afraid to name, but had his heart racing perhaps more than the physical sensations. Dean’s mouth was searching, his tongue dipping into Castiel’s mouth, sliding along his teeth, tangling with his tongue. It was more than Castiel had ever thought he’d get, but then Dean moved to kiss his neck, sucking and biting, and he could only let out a deep moan. He could feel himself becoming aroused, straining against his shorts. Dean was so beautiful, so wonderful, but he was also so vulnerable. Castiel forced himself to pull away.

Dean lost his balance, falling forward against Castiel as he tried to renew their kissing. “What’s wrong?”

“This is. You’re not—we can’t—“

“Cas,” Dean whined. “I didn’t sabotage our only chance of rescue because of my fondness for fish.”

Castiel could only frown at him in reply.

“Maybe it’s just you,” Dean continued. “Or maybe I’ve always been this way and never noticed, or maybe I did notice and never wanted to admit it to myself. I don’t care.” Dipping down, he pulled Castiel into another kiss, taking advantage of his surprise to explore his mouth with his tongue again. After a long, wet kiss, he pulled away just enough to speak. “Let me be your first,” he whispered against Castiel’s lips, letting his own erection brush against Castiel’s thigh.

Incapable of coherent speech, Castiel surged forward and captured Dean’s mouth in another bruising kiss. His hands wandered along Dean’s shoulders and back, feeling the sunkissed skin beneath his fingers. Dean’s hands, meanwhile, which had woven baskets, caught rabbits, and bandaged the wound on Castiel’s leg, wove through his hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. They removed each other’s remaining clothes: Castiel’s undershirt, Dean’s T shirt, and, finally, their underwear. Dean placed his hand boldly on Castiel’s erection, his thumb stroking the head. It was more than Castiel had ever experienced, and sparks erupted in his groin.

“Dean,” he groaned. “That feels so good.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” 

Dean rotated his hand around Castiel’s erection, forcing a gasp out of him. “Ah, ah, I want to touch you, too.”

“Please,” Dean moaned. 

Castiel wrapped his fingers around Dean; it being the first time—probably, given his adolescent fumbling—he’d touched another man’s penis, he was overcome with the sensation. It was hot, firm, he could feel the blood within it, and it was almost better than being touched himself. Almost, because Dean began to stroke Castiel in earnest. How could someone else’s hand feel so much better than his own? As it turned out, Dean had something even greater in store for Castiel. He gently pushed Castiel so he was lying down on his back with Dean straddling him like a horse. In this position, they could kiss, and Dean could thrust his cock against Castiel’s. It was as if a million fireworks went off inside their little cave.

Dean leaned forward again to give Castiel a searing kiss, trapping Castiel’s cock between himself and Castiel’s stomach. Another shift, and it slid behind Dean, between his thighs and nestled between the cheeks of his ass. Oh, that felt good, too. So good, that Castiel couldn’t help but thrust up into that amazing pressure. 

“Holy shit, Ca-as,” Dean said, ending on a moan.

With such a positive reaction, Castiel intensified his thrusting, planting his legs on the ground for balance. That’s when everything went wrong.

Castiel had forgotten about his leg, but it couldn’t support his weight and, as he gasped in pain, his legs collapsed beneath him, knocking Dean off balance on top of him.

“Oof,” Dean grunted. He sat up, still straddling Castiel’s waist and ran a soothing hand over Castiel’s collarbone and chest. “Hey, sweetheart, you’ve got to take care of your leg.”

“Why do you call me that?” Castiel asked, the pet name finally registering.

“You don’t like it?” Dean’s voice was tender and nervous. “Of course not, you’re a man. I…I should have known.”

“No, I like it,” Castiel said with a smile. “I can be your sweetheart.”

“Damn right, sweetheart,” Dean grinned. He leaned down and kissed the edge of Castiel’s jaw, mouthing downward to his neck. There would be a mark—a love bite—where Dean was now laving attention, and that thought thrilled Castiel. If this was all he ever had, even alone with Dean on the island, then at least he’d have something physical as evidence. Even without a mirror to see it himself, Dean would see it and he would know he’d put it there. 

“Dean, Dean,” he moaned.

Dean broke from the kiss to speak. “I love to hear you say my name. Man, I thought this would be weird.”

“Did you think about it?”

“Every day. I mean, you had to notice.”

“I did notice; I didn’t think you’d ever be willing to act on it.” Castiel smiled against Dean’s cheek, placing a kiss on the prickly beard.

“You forced my hand.”

“I like your hand,” Castiel said. Dean took the hint and wrapped that hand around both of their cocks, giving a firm stroke upwards. Unfortunately, while the position had obvious positives, without the use of his leg, Castiel could get no leverage. “Can we—can we lie down next to each other? Like…”

“Like the first night?” Dean finished. He rolled off Castiel and lay next to him. Castiel turned towards him to lie on his side, his hurt leg safely elevated. He guided Dean so that they were lying front to back like spoons in a drawer. Dean chuckled softly. “What do you have in mind, Cas?”

“Nothing that will hurt you, Dean. Trust me.” Castiel edged closer so his erection nestled between Dean’s ass cheeks. Another little thrust and it slid between Dean’s thighs, surrounded by Dean’s warmth. He tested the position with a few more gentle thrusts, the head of his cock making contact with Dean’s scrotum.

“Okay,” Dean breathed.

With pre-ejaculate and sweat to ease the way, Castiel began thrusting in earnest, sliding between Dean’s thighs like they did in Ancient Greece. It was magnificent—the pressure, the tightness, the slick glide of skin on skin. Dean kept letting out breathy sighs and moans when Castiel would bump against his perineum or slip across his anus. 

“That’s so good, Cas,” Dean gasped. “I didn’t think it could be this good.”

“I know,” Castiel agreed, mouthing at the skin available to him, kissing Dean’s freckled shoulders, his neck, and leaving his own marks to remember this by.

Castiel’s thrusts grew erratic as his body’s instincts took over; he could feel a telltale tightening in his balls, a warm feeling in his groin. Suddenly, Dean began pushing back against him faster, and Castiel realized he was stroking himself in time to Castiel’s thrusts. The idea that Dean was enjoying this as much as he was forced Castiel over the edge and his body seized. He painted the inside of Dean’s thighs with his release, spilling forward over Dean’s balls and the hand working him over. Dean stiffened and sighed, turning his head so Cas could kiss him through it.

Once their heartrates had returned to normal and their breathing had calmed, Dean rolled back over so they faced each other. He kissed Castiel slowly and tenderly, interlacing their fingers. Dean’s were still messy with his spill, but Castiel didn’t care. 

If forever was only one moment, Castiel would have wished it to be this.


	11. Chapter 11

“Absolutely not, Cas,” Dean growled. The wind had picked up and he shivered in the cool breeze.

“You replaced my bandage this morning, and my leg is fine,” Castiel said.

“For now,” Dean reminded him. “You can’t just put an open wound in that dirty, disgusting ocean full of fish piss and who knows what else.”

“We have to eat.”

Dean had to roll his eyes at that. “We still have dried fish, and my rabbit traps, and anything I can scavenge; we could start hunting birds—there’s definitely enough of them around. That will last us long enough for your wound to actually close, then you can go back to diving.”

“You say that, but we don’t know when things might change. A storm might move in next week, or we may be overhunting rabbits—“

“They’re rabbits!” Dean interrupted. “They breed like…rabbits!”

“The sea is plentiful,” Castiel finished.

“Sweetheart,” Dean pulled Cas close, his hands on Cas’s muscular waist. “I would rather starve than risk you getting an infection that we can’t treat. Come back to the cave and we’ll worry about food later.”

“Or,” Cas laid a searing kiss on Dean’s neck. “We could roll around on the beach.”

“Mmm,” Dean said, letting Cas nibble on his ear. “Like _From Here to Eternity_.”

“Yes, only neither of us will kill ourselves,” Castiel added darkly.

“Don’t even,” Dean scolded, as he pressed a kiss into the side of Cas’s neck. “You came too close yesterday, sweetheart.”

He held Castiel close, their nude bodies pressed against each other. They’d woken up like that, entangled and filthy on their makeshift bed. Cas had been so beautiful, sleeping peacefully, his tanned skin glowing in the sunlight that filtered into their cave. Dean was overcome with something he’d never thought he’d feel. This amazing man, who used words as kisses, who was deep and breathtaking and adorable, belonged to Dean. In this stupid world, where Dean had lost everything he’d ever had, he had found something new. It blossomed on this island the way spring flowers blossomed on the hills outside Athens.

As Cas continued to lavish attention on Dean’s neck, he could feel himself growing hard again. They’d already used their hands on each other after waking up, while washing each other with water from their spring. Castiel’s hands had wandered over every inch of skin he could find, including places Dean had never been touched before. Cas was curious, and his curiosity had spilled over to Dean. He wondered what it would feel like to have more than the very tip of a finger pressing into him. The thought of it—with the help of Cas’s errant finger—had had him coming like a freight train. They hadn’t bothered to dress afterwards—one of the benefits of a deserted island—but Cas insisted they wear their shoes to head down to the beach.

Cas took him by hand to the large rocks they’d spent their first dinner sitting on, and where they’d watched each other jerk off. “We haven’t used our mouths yet,” he said as he arranged himself on the ground below Dean.

“Your leg!” Dean reminded him.

Cas only responded by placing a kiss right on Dean’s inner thigh. Dean’s cock continued to thicken, as Cas teased every inch of skin except the one Dean wanted—needed—him to.

“You fucking tease,” he growled.

Cas pulled away, smirking. “I’ve never done this before; I want to savor it.”

“ _I want to savor it_ ,” Dean parroted. “I’m not a fucking steak, Caa-aas!”

Cas took the whole of Dean’s cock in his mouth, right down to the root; Dean could feel the head of it hit the back of Cas’s throat.

“Oh shit, Cas,” Dean moaned, even as Cas coughed and sputtered with the unfamiliar intrusion.

He tried again, moving his mouth up and down, using his hand on what he couldn’t reach. God, it was so good! Cas was sloppy, inexperienced, but enthusiastic—running his tongue over everything he could reach, moving away to lick Dean’s balls. Dean was instantly grateful for Anna’s stupid smelly soap and their morning wash. Cas didn’t seem to mind the taste or smell, though. He made sweet little moaning sounds from his perch on the ground, and Dean realized Cas was touching himself with his free hand.

“Hey, hey, Cas, sweetheart,” he said, pushing Cas’s head back.

“Am I doing things wrong?” Cas asked. His beautiful face fell, and those big blue eyes of his were filled with anxiety.

“God, no,” Dean answered. “You’re so good.”

Cas’s face turned to the annoyed, haughty expression Dean knew so well. He licked his lips of what must have been the taste of Dean, and Dean nearly came from the sight of that soft, pink tongue. “Oh, then what’s the problem?”

“You’re touching yourself.”

Cas’s hand was still wrapped around his cock, but he’d stopped stroking it. He looked down at his hand in confusion. “Yes, Dean. I’m willing to be a giving lover, but I’d like to have a turn myself.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean said; he could feel his cheeks turning red, even under a week’s sunburn. “I thought I’d take care of that.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas moaned, giving himself another forbidden stroke.

“Stop that.” Dean swatted away Cas’s hand. “That’s mine, Cas! Mine!”

They devolved into laughter, and Cas had to rest his head against Dean’s thigh, petting the other with his hand, before he could continue.

“ _You’re_ mine,” Dean said, running his fingers through Cas’s hair. It was soft despite the days of salt water and sun, and Cas leaned into the touch.

Cas eventually returned his attention to Dean’s erection. He’d already improved; Dean half wondered if he was keeping track of the sounds Dean made. Boy, was Dean making sounds. He couldn’t control his mouth, letting out gasps, moans, high pitched noises he’d deny afterwards, and deep, throaty groans. Cas flicked his velvety tongue against the head, dipping it into the slit until Dean’s noises became a low drone of pleasure. He slipped his lips around the head and continued flicking his tongue against that sensitive spot on the underside. Dean could feel his balls contract; his focus shrunk down to Cas’s mouth. The crash of the waves, the call of seabirds, the whistle of the wind, all the familiar sounds that had become like home disappeared. He could hardly control the movements of his body; his hips making little thrusts into Cas’s mouth, one hand gripping Cas’s hair, the other holding Cas’s hand where it lay on his thigh. Cas doubled down on his efforts; his hand, his tongue, his lips all working  
together to give Dean this unbelievable pleasure. His other hand tugged at Dean’s balls, and brushed a finger behind them. One final lick up the length of him and around the head and Dean felt his body contract. He could feel his cock twitch with every spurt of his release. Cas couldn’t catch it all in his mouth, so it dripped down his face in fat rivulets.

Dean collapsed forward; he could kiss the top of Cas’s head from the new position. Eventually, his breathing returned to normal, and the world faded back into existence. “God, sweetheart, that was fantastic.”

Cas looked up at him with large, desperate blue eyes, his face still streaked with Dean’s semen. “I believe you said something about taking care of this.” He gestured to his crotch, where his cock was still obscenely hard and leaking. A stir of arousal at the sight made Dean’s own cock twitch futilely. He never imagined he’d like another man’s cock as much as he did. He wanted to taste it.

It was a couple minutes of maneuvering before he could get Cas in position. His legs felt like jelly when he tried to stand, and switching places with Cas was like trying to walk in quick sand. Finally, he was the one crouching in the rough sand, and Cas was the one with the tantalizing cock at the ready. He was big, bigger than he’d seemed in the dim light of their cave, and definitely bigger than Dean. Dean’s curiosity was piqued again by what that cock would feel like inside him. Well, he’d find out what it felt like in his mouth if he could just get his act together.

He started by licking the head, just tiny flicks of the tongue. He’d learned from Cas’s rookie mistakes and had no interest in choking on the thing. The taste was bitter, the feel was slick, smooth, and hot against his tongue, and the sound Cas made was unreal. Dean closed his mouth around the head; it stretched his lips in a way he really liked. His mouth was messily leaking spit as he moved down the shaft; Cas’s cock was dripping with it. Dean wrapped a hand around what couldn’t fit, moving it in concert with his lips.

“Dean,” Cas moaned. “Your mouth—it’s so good, so hot.” His hand traced the contours of Dean’s face; his fingers feeling where Dean’s lips were stretched around him. “I won’t last—God, I won’t last.”

Dean redoubled his efforts, moving his mouth up and down Cas’s cock until his jaw strained. He could feel it twitch in his mouth, and Cas’s hips began to jerk, and Dean knew he was close. The first bitter salty spurt was a surprise, but Dean was able to swallow it as more flowed into his mouth. He pulled off, but continued to lick Cas’s cock clean, savoring every drop of his release. When he was done—God help him—he tugged Cas’s face down towards him, and licked his own spend off of Cas’s chin. He eased Cas’s lips open with his tongue, and they kissed, long and hard, the tastes of each other mingling in their mouths.

“Write a poem about _that_ ,” Dean joked, pulling away far enough that they could press together, forehead to forehead.

Cas raised his head and looked thoughtful. “There once was a man from Nantucket,” he deadpanned.

“You’re from Boston,” Dean corrected him with a laugh.

“I’m from Manhattan,” Cas shrugged. “I lived there, I went to school there. I could have spent the rest of my life there. Now, I’ll spend the rest of my life here.”

“We’ll get off. I promise.”

“What if we didn’t,” Cas said darkly. “What if there’s another boat, and our signal doesn’t work.

“We’d find another way.”

“What if we didn’t.”

“We’ll try.”

“What if we didn’t.”

“ _Cas?_ ”

He didn’t look like he was joking—he never looked like he was joking, even when he was. Dean’s heart started beating a little faster, but he wasn’t sure if it was excitement or apprehension.

Cas’s eyes grew wide in the wake of Dean’s awkward pause. “You do realize I’m suggesting we stay on the island.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean breathed. “But…but your leg. You almost died, and you…you wanted to leave. You were so mad when I ruined the signal.”

“I know,” Cas said calmly. “My leg is fine—“

“For now,” Dean reminded him.

Cas gave him an imperious look that caused him to shiver. “Dean,” he said. “I did want to signal that boat. When faced with a possible rescue, I was not able to resist an attempt, but you know that I was already apprehensive about leaving. Perhaps it was cowardice—I would have no worry of disappointing my family if I never saw them again—perhaps it was hope.”

Dean made no effort to hide his blush at that.

“What if you get hurt again? What if you get sick?”

Cas took Dean’s hands in his. “There are no guarantees in life, no matter where we are. I could get hit by a car in Manhattan; anything could go wrong.”

“Believe me, I know that better than anyone, Cas.”

“Then have a little faith… _sweetheart_ ,” Cas smiled and it was like the sun peeking through the clouds after a rainstorm. Dean knew what he was thinking; this island had brought them together. No one cared what they did here; Cas was free to be who he was without fear of retribution. For Dean, however, there was something much stronger tying him to the island.

It felt like home.

After the fire, when Dean had been lost and alone, he’d thought he’d never feel safe again. He never thought he’d feel like he belonged. His family had been his life: working for his dad at the auto shop, taking care of his genius little brother, the first of his family to go to college, helping his mom make the best pie in Kansas.

He reached up and pulled Cas in for a kiss.

They spent the next few days luxuriating in their new relationship, never bothering with clothing. Cas’s leg was healing nicely, and Dean let him go into the water on the third day. Cas pulled him after, and they spent so much time kissing and moving together in the water, that they only caught one fish. Rolling around in the sand, afterwards, had seemed much sexier in the movies, but Dean ended up with his ass in the sand. It was still worth it for the feeling of Cas above him, thrusting against him with wanton abandon as the waves washed over them.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean said breathlessly, wiping their mutual releases off his stomach with wet sand. “Burt Lancaster has nothing on you.”

Castiel looked down on him with a squint. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Come on, then, let’s clean up and then eat. I’m starving.” Cas gave him a hand up, and they returned to their cave to eat their meager catch.

With long term living on their minds, they decided to increase their foraging efforts. There was a patch of fertile soil near their spring that would make a decent garden, where they could cultivate the tastier plants like fennel and sage. The grove where Dean had found Cas provided more firewood, which they collected and hoarded like a dragon with gold. Their continued distractions when it came to the fish and seafood that was the bulk of their diet meant that they would have to double their efforts eventually. Most of their time, however, was spent in each other’s arms, making love. Cas was a quick learner, and relentless in his desire to discover and appreciate Dean’s body.

On the fifth morning, Dean woke up in the middle of an erotic dream. The sun was already up; he could make out the glare from the entrance of their cave. It was pretty impressive that after days of nonstop sex, he could still get hard in his sleep. As he continued to wake up, however, he realized that the waves of pleasure coursing through him were not imaginary. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he found Cas bent over him, Dean’s cock in his mouth.

“That’s a nice way to wake up,” he murmured.

Cas pulled off with a soft _pop_. “I’m glad you approve.” He returned to his activity. Cas had learned a lot over the past few days; he expertly took Dean’s cock in his mouth again. His tongue and his lips were so good. Dean was going to get to have this for the rest of his life. He was never going to be alone again. This beautiful, fascinating, unbelievably brave man was going to be his forever. That thought pushed him over the edge as much as Cas’s mouth and hand and he came all over Cas’s palm. He watched through hooded eyes as Cas used his release to jerk himself off all over Dean.

Dean reached down and ran a hand through Cas’s hair fondly. “I should get cleaned up.”

“No, I’ll go,” Cas offered. “I’m the one who woke you up.”

“I really didn’t mind,” Dean shouted after him as he left the cave for their makeshift bathtub.

Cas had not been gone long when he returned stony-faced and pale.

“There’s a boat, Dean.”


	12. Chapter 12

“And? We decided to stay here, the boat can go to hell.”

Cas shook his head sadly. “It’s already _here_.”

“What?” Dean rushed to the promontory where their signal fire had been set up, but Castiel knew what he would see: a small boat moored off the island, close enough that Castiel didn’t need the broken remains of his glasses to see it. While he was gone, Castiel found the clothes he hadn’t worn in nearly a week and got dressed.

Dean returned, his face betraying no emotion, but Castiel knew he felt the same way Castiel did. If they were being rescued, they wouldn’t be able to justify staying on the island. It was one thing to ignore a passing boat, but it was something else entirely to turn away people who had been actively looking for them. They finished dressing in silence, but held hands for their last walk down to the beach.

A dinghy was beached not far from where their own raft had washed up. It was empty, but Castiel looked up just in time to see a few figures down the beach; he didn’t need to be able to see clearly to know who one of them was. He dropped Dean’s hand.

“Dean!” a voice yelled in a thick Southern accent. “Both of them!”

“Benny,” Dean said to Cas, then yelled it to the man in question. Their rescuers began to move down the beach towards them, and Dean and Castiel shifted apart, just enough to appear appropriate.

“I can’t believe it, brother,” Captain Lafitte—the first to arrive—embraced Dean. “Mr. Milton”—a slight head nod—“I can’t believe we found you.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what to say; he’d enjoyed nothing but intimacy with Dean for so long, that polite conversation escaped him. His father and Captain Lafitte were joined by a tall, gangly man he recognized from the crew of the yacht. He echoed Captain Lafitte’s sentiments and effusion, embracing Dean. Castiel and his father could only stand there, staring at each other.

“Father,” Cas said, finally.

“You were gone,” his father replied with little emotion.

“Yes. Did everyone else make it to safety?”

“Yeah,” Captain Lafitte answered. “Both lifeboats were picked up the next morning by a fishing boat.”

“Good. That’s good.” Castiel wanted to take Dean’s hand, but he knew it was impossible. He wanted to bury his face in the space between Dean’s shoulder and neck, smell the scent of violets and musk that belonged only to Dean. He wanted to tell his father to go back to the boat and leave them be. “How did you find us?” he said instead.

“We’ll talk on the boat,” Castiel’s father said. “I’d like to get back to Crete as soon as possible. Your mother is anxious to see you again, Castiel.”

“Actually, we have things in our cave,” Dean chimed in. “We’ll go get them, and meet you back at the dinghy.”

“Your cave?” Castiel’s father asked suspiciously.

“Yes, father, we’ve been sleeping in a cave up the mountain,” Castiel explained. “We have some things we’d like to take with us.”

His father raised a quizzical brow at that, but indicated that they should lead the way.

“There’s not a lot, Mr. Milton. Your son and I can handle it. It’s a rough climb,” Dean said. Castiel was surprised by his boldness; even his father’s social equals kowtowed to him.

“Garth,” Captain Lafitte addressed the third man. “You stay on the beach with Mr. Milton, and I’ll go with Dean and the younger Mr. Milton to this cave.”

Castiel’s father consented, and there was no way for them to get out of it. Captain Lafitte talked the whole way up the hillside. “I still can’t believe you’re here—both of you. When we saw the fire last night, we sure thought it was going to be another dead end.”

“You saw our fire.” Castiel repeated. 

“Yes,” Benny confirmed. “We took out the _Andrea II_ , in hopes that we’d find one of you. Your father never believed you were really dead, Mr. Milton.”

“You thought I was dead?” Castiel asked. He hadn’t thought about his family thinking he was dead. He suddenly realized how cruel their plan to stay on the island really was.

“We knew one of you made it to a liferaft, since you set off a flare, but the last time anyone saw you, you were getting back on the boat like an idiot—sorry, I shouldn’t have overstepped, Mr. Milton.”

“Relax, Benny,” Dean said, slapping Captain Lafitte on the shoulder. “Cas is cool, man.” He favored Castiel with a small, secret smile. “I pulled Cas out of the water; he was the one who set off the flare, though.”

“I told you they would see it,” Castiel grinned at Dean, probably more smugly than he should have.

“Yes,” Dean replied, with an air of exasperated fondness that would belie their intimacy if Captain Lafitte picked up on it. “You should be very proud. If only the waves hadn’t swept us away, you would be a hero.”

Castiel gave him a small shove that would have been a kiss if they had been alone.

Captain Lafitte again seemed oblivious to their casual familiarity. The path to their cave was well worn by their regular travel, unlike the lie Dean told his father. Again, the captain did not seem to notice the discrepancy. They reached their home in short time.

“Hey, Benny, you mind putting out the fire—it’s been banked—we’ll collect our belongings from in here,” Dean suggested, with far too much enthusiasm.

“Sure thing, brother,” Benny answered.

Dean practically tugged Castiel into the darkness of the cave. Once they were alone, his manner turned urgent. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Benny will understand. We tell him we want to stay on the island, and he’ll suggest to your father that we can’t all fit in the dinghy, so he’ll take him back, then weigh anchor and we’re safe.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. He could already feel the tears stinging his eyes. “It’s too late.”

“No,” Dean insisted, his own tears dropping freely. “We can stay—we need to stay.”

“I know, Dean, I know.” Castiel ran a soothing hand down Dean’s arm; he leaned into the contact. “I want to stay, too, but we can’t.”

“I’m going to miss this,” Dean sighed, leaning his head on Cas’s shoulder. 

Despite the threat of exposure, Castiel turned and lifted Dean’s face towards him to place a kiss on his lips. He nibbled at Dean’s plump bottom lip and Dean opened up for him, tangling their tongues in a passionate kiss one last time. They broke apart just as Captain Lafitte poked his head through the entrance. 

“Fire’s out,” he said. His eyes scanned their surroundings. “Nice cave.”

They folded up what was once Anna’s wedding dress. It was filthy, stained with Castiel’s blood and their ejaculate, but Castiel couldn’t help but think of at it as their marriage bed. The raft, too, was folded and tied onto the lid with the last of their string. They took everything: the baskets that had helped save Castiel’s life, the shells they used as spoons and spades, the silver goblets that had toasted their union rather than Anna’s, even their food store of dried fish and leaves. 

Dean picked up the tiny notebook and the fountain pen from the ledge Castiel kept it on. “Don’t forget this,” he said. Instead of dropping it in the trunk with the rest of their collection, Dean handed it to Cas. “You can publish those someday, swee—Cas.”

“I doubt it,” Castiel replied, as he tucked it safetly into his back pocket along with what remained of his glasses.

“Aww, some of them aren’t so bad,” Dean replied. Castiel could hear the fondness in the lie, his gentle teasing hiding something profound that they had yet to name. Castiel knew what Dean thought of those poems and why they could never be published. 

“Is that it?” The captain interrupted their almost tender moment, moving between them to collect the trunk, which he closed and heaved up. 

Both Castiel and Dean moved to help him, but Dean pushed Castiel aside. “Your leg, Cas,” he warned. 

“…is fine,” Castiel countered.

They descended back down to the beach; Castiel walked behind Dean and his friend carrying the trunk between them. Dean had a beautiful ass, and Castiel watched it strain from the extra weight as they climbed downhill. He couldn’t go back to the life his father had planned for him, pretending he didn’t want men, marrying a woman and giving her children, going to work for the bank. It would be a nightmare now that he knew how it could be. 

When they reached the beach, Castiel’s father was still waiting for them, sitting on the same rocks where Castiel and Dean had performed fellatio on each other. It gave him subversive gratification to see his father sitting where acts he would consider abominations had occurred. 

The trunk was stowed in the dinghy which left the island with all five passengers inside. Their island grew further away until Cas could no longer make out any details on it; his heart weighed heavy. It wasn’t quite paradise, but, for a short time, it had been home.

“I hope this has opened your eyes to your future, Castiel,” his father said, once they had climbed onto the boat and let Garth and a deckhand pull the trunk aboard.

“As a matter of fact, father, it has,” Castiel said. Dean gave him a quizzical look, but Castiel dismissed it with a subtle shake of his head.

“Excellent,” his father said. “Then I expect you won’t be finishing up your pointless graduate school. _Poetry_.”

Before Castiel could answer, a sheet of red hair came running towards him and embraced him. “Castiel!” his sister cried into his shoulder. “You’re alive!”

“Yes, I…” Castiel began, but he couldn’t finish the thought. He closed his arms around Anna, and let her warm presence comfort him. “It’s good to see you.”

“Where are your glasses?”

Castiel pulled the broken glasses out of his pocket and put them on.

“They still work if he pretends he’s a pirate,” Dean joked, squinting one eye like Castiel had to do to make the glasses work.

“Dean!” she said with a smile. “I’m very glad you’re alive as well.” Castiel did not like the way his sister looked at Dean, like she was sizing up a steak she wanted to eat.

“Is Michael on the boat?” Castiel asked, with absolutely no ulterior motive.

“Michael is in Boston, with his parents,” Anna said, rolling her eyes. “And his engagement ring.”

“It was a hasty decision,” their father said. Anna responded with a pointed glare in his direction.

“I guess it’s good that your wedding dress is pretty much destroyed, then,” Dean said. 

Anna gasped. “My dress? My Belgian lace dress?”

Castiel shot Dean a disapproving look, but he only grinned in return. “It was a worthy sacrifice to our survival, Miss Milton,” he said. Cheeky bastard! They had defiled that dress more times than Castiel could count.

“Yes, we’re very sorry about the dress, Anna,” Castiel added. “But what about Michael?”

Anna took Castiel’s arm and walked with him towards the sun deck, where they could sit. The boat was much smaller than the yacht that had burned, but it was still a fine boat. 

“Michael wanted to go on with the wedding,” Anna said. “Despite our family’s grief at your apparent loss, he believed we should not delay. He was not the man for me.”

She gave another lingering glance at Dean, and Castiel’s insides seized. Dean smiled at Anna, and, while Dean’s intent was surely not to encourage her, Castiel wanted to lay claim to him in front of everyone. 

“Castiel?”

“I’m sorry?” Castiel replied, realizing that his father was trying to speak to him.

“I said, ‘What happened to your leg?’ son,” his father asked. He almost sounded concerned. “Your pants leg is ripped and bloody.”

“I was foolish, lost my footing, and fell. Dean saved my life.”

“There was mutual lifesaving,” Dean offered shyly. “Cas…tiel caught fish and shellfish, he made spears, he…” Dean blushed and looked away. 

“Someone should look at it,” Castiel’s father said, ignoring Dean’s awkwardness.

“I’ll take care of it,” Dean insisted. “Benny, do you have a first aid kit?”

They showered and shaved first—separately, which was absolute torture for Castiel—and were each given a clean uniform to wear. None of the other men’s clothes would have fit them, and even this uniform was too tight in the seat. Captain Lafitte and the Greek deckhand were both too large, Castiel’s father too short, Garth too skinny. Dean and Castiel were nearly the same size, and Castiel had a brief fantasy of a closet mixing both their clothes—wearing Dean’s soft T-shirts under his shirts at school.

They reconnected in the tiny Officer’s mess. Dean looked so handsome in the uniform, clean and happy. Castiel couldn’t get close enough to smell him, but he would likely smell of the same basic soap that Castiel had used. Captain Lafitte retrieved the first aid kit for Dean, then left them in privacy.

Dean made Castiel sit on the table, while he pulled out a chair. Instead of sitting in it, however, he leaned between Castiel’s legs and kissed the edge of his newly cleanshaven jaw. It was a surprising—and dangerous—move, but Castiel relished in it.

“You smell,” Castiel said. He also tasted like spearmint toothpaste, and it was a change from the flavor of wild sage he’d grown accustomed to.

Dean pulled away far enough to look Castiel in the eyes. “Two weeks on a deserted island, but now I smell?”

“No,” Castiel said, shaking his head. “You smell like violets.”

“Oh,” Dean blushed. “I grabbed our soap from the trunk before I showered. I guess I’m still not ready to give up on our island life.” Castiel’s heart swelled, and he pulled Dean towards him so they could kiss some more. Eventually Dean pulled away, peppering Castiel’s cheeks with little kisses as he released him. “Leg, up.”

“Bossy,” Castiel joked, but he complied.

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart,” Dean replied. He kissed the bare skin of Castiel’s leg as he applied iodine to the wound and rebandaged it. “It’s too late to bother with stitches, but I feel a lot better about infection now. You’re just going to have a scar like a badass.”

“Oh, good. Perhaps I shall impress my professors with it.” Castiel said in a deadpan. “Captain Lafitte apologized profusely for the lack of accommodations while he escorted me to the showers. He wished there were more guest cabins on this yacht, but my sister and my father each have the only private rooms.”

“That’s very interesting.” Dean added. He was still lavishing attention on Castiel’s calf. “Because Benny apologized to me that the crew’s quarters were full, but since I’d been sleeping in a cave for two weeks, I might prefer a guest cabin anyway. As long as I didn’t mind sharing with the younger Mr. Milton.”

“This is definitely a problem,” Castiel whispered, tugging on Dean’s hair. They kissed for several minutes, until a knock on the door interrupted them.

“Father,” Castiel said, as Dean stood up and opened the door. 

“Your leg is fine?” he asked.

“Yes, Dean is simply being overprotective. He felt any complications would have been his responsibility because he had treated my wound.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “You know—infection can set in if you’re not careful.”

“Thank you for your diligence, Mr. Winchester. Perhaps I could speak to my son alone?”

“We’re done here, anyway, father,” Castiel said. “We’ll head out to the sun deck, let Dean get some food, perhaps.”

Even with the remains of his glasses on his face, Castiel could no longer see the island that had been his and Dean’s home. He regretted having been distracted when it had faded out of sight. He’d been happier on that island than he’d been anywhere else, even in his apartment in Manhattan. He’d had something there nearly as profound as the love he’d found with Dean—freedom. He had one opportunity to take a little piece of that back to his real life.

His resolve set, he faced his father. “I don’t want to work for you,” he said. “I want to finish my degree and continue writing poetry.”

“Nonsense, Castiel,” his father replied dismissively. “No one makes a living as a poet.”

“I am aware of the fiscal loss, but I do not care. It’s my life, and I would be strangled working for the bank. If I have to sweep floors to make ends meet, so be it.”

“You’re so much better than that, Castiel,” his father insisted. “I won’t allow my son to be a failure. If you are going to be a poet, then you must be a successful one.”

Castiel’s eyes grew wide as his father’s words. “You won’t object?”

“If you feel you couldn’t possibly be happy any other way.”

“I can’t,” Castiel said honestly. While his father might have meant his career, Castiel was thinking of Dean, of the life he wished they could have together. 

“Very well,” his father said, a touch of exasperation in his tone. “I expect to see you published within five years. Also, you do have a trust fund that you’ll be able to access when you’re twenty-five, so I don’t think sweeping floors will ever be a necessity.” 

“Fair point,” Castiel conceded.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean was rummaging through the contents of the cabinets of the Officer’s mess, when he heard a voice behind him.

“I sure am glad you’re not dead, brother.”

“Me, too,” Dean agreed, turning to give Benny a friendly smile. “Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Ooh,” Benny frowned. “Peanut butter is not common around these parts.”

“Right, of course.”

Dean picked up the bread he’d found, ready to put it back in the cupboard when Benny spoke again. “However, Garth’s mother sent a whole box of it to him for his birthday, and there might be some left. Check the bottom drawer.”

Dean opened the drawer and found a precious jar of peanut butter, but he continued searching through the cabinets for the rest of his bounty. “Do you have any celery? Carrots, maybe?”

“Yeah, brother,” Benny chuckled. “We have a full supply of fruits and vegetables in the galley. Since when did you like veggies?”

“Since two weeks of fish and rabbit.” Dean shook his head. When he and Cas had planned to stay on their island, he had hoped that the upcoming summer would have brought some diversity to their meals. Food was definitely going to be the best thing about being off the island—the second best thing, if Dean got his way. “I’m starving.”

“Hence the peanut butter,” Benny said.

“Actually, that’s for Cas.”

“Oh, _Cas_?”

“What’s that about?” Dean grimaced. “Was I supposed to call him _Mr. Milton_ while we fought for our lives on a deserted island?”

“Nah, but you two bicker worse than Andrea and me. Just wondering if you boys got married while you were there, _fighting for your lives_.”

“Shut your mouth, Benny.” Dean felt himself go red. 

“I’m just teasing, brother,” Benny laughed easily. “Maybe you can use your in with the family somehow, seeing as how pretty boy is your new best friend. I saw how that redheaded sister of his was eyeing you.” 

Dean joined in the laughter, but his was stilted and false. Before the island, he might have taken Anna up on her obvious attraction to him. He had thought about it before Cas— _Cas!_ —had interrupted. She would have to be disappointed now because he belonged to her brother: heart, soul, and body. Especially body. To that effect:

“Hey, Benny, do you have any lotion or Vaseline or something. I’ve got a bad sunburn, and it hurts something awful.”

Cas was sitting on the sun deck by himself when Dean found him, furiously writing in his notebook. When he saw Dean approaching, he looked up and smiled.

“I think my father gave me his blessing.”

Dean placed his tray onto one of the tables and began to clear it of his load. He dropped the two plates onto the table Cas was seated at; they made a clacking sound against the glass top. “You told your father about us?” he asked, picking up one of the carrots that had fallen off the plate.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean,” Cas scolded, but there was no heat in it. “I told my father I wished to pursue a career as a poet and did not want to join him counting money in an office somewhere.”

“Damn right, sweetheart,” Dean grinned.

Castiel seemed to finally notice the sandwiches Dean had put on the table. “What’s this?”

“Peanut butter sandwiches,” Dean said. He placed the rest of his bounty, two glasses of milk, plus an armful of little jars, onto the table—minus one very important jar, which stayed in his pocket. “You didn’t mention jam, so I brought everything they had.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas breathed, clearly touched by the gesture. He picked up each jar, scrutinizing its contents, until he found one that made him smile. “Grape jelly is my favorite. I hate jam.”

“Okay,” Dean smiled. Cas scrunched up his face in disgust. Damn, that was adorable. Cas was not only handsome, interesting, sexy, and wonderful, he was also pretty cute, too. “Well, I was starving, I figured you had to be, too.”

“Thank you.”

They ate their sandwiches in comfortable silence. How something so simple—peanut butter and strawberry jam for Dean—could taste like ambrosia was probably a function of living off of their limited diet, but Dean didn’t care. These little pleasures were all he had left in the real world. Well…he had one last big pleasure, perhaps.

Cas was still engrossed in his sandwich, gnawing on carrot sticks between bites, when Dean placed the last little jar on the table. Dean’s cheeks were warm, and he kept glancing around, afraid someone would see it and know what it meant. 

“What’s that?” Castiel had finally seen Dean’s gift, and he stared at it in confusion.

“It’s Vaseline, Cas.”

“Yes, I know that, but why do you eat _petroleum_ jelly on your sandwiches?”

“Very funny,” Dean deadpanned. He slipped the jar back into the pocket of his borrowed clothes. “You look tired, Cas.”

“I’m fine,” Cas shrugged, downing the rest of his milk. “Perhaps I’d like another sandwich.”

“Cas,” Dean said, shaking his head at his lover’s naivety. “I am pretty tired myself. I thought maybe we could each go to our cabin, and we’d put this little jar in my pocket to good use.”

Castiel stared blankly at him until, finally, the wheels started turning. “Dean,” he breathed. “You would let me do that?”

“Yeah, I…I want that Cas. I want to be that close to you. I want to truly be your first.”

Castiel all but lept out of his chair. “I’m going to go take a nap in my cabin!” he shouted.

They went to their cabin separately, first Castiel, then Dean ten minutes later. Dean found Cas standing in the tiny room, staring in dismay at the sleeping arrangements. 

“These beds are very small. We are not small men, Dean. This is going to be very difficult.”

“Cas, you’re going to sodomize me. I think neither of us having any experience in that department is already going to make things difficult. I kind of wish other things were smaller.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cas said, trying to keep a pleased smirk off his face.

Dean slid a hand down Cas’s muscular back and gave his plump ass a squeeze. “I liked when you touched me there. I mean…” Dean’s face must have turned redder than his sunburn. “I’m not afraid, Cas.”

“Good,” Castiel said, turning his head so he could kiss Dean. He ran his tongue over Dean’s lips, flicking the tip inside as Dean opened for him. It was gentle and teasing, tasting of peanut butter, but he pulled away too soon. “Because I’m terrified,” he whispered.

Dean placed a hand on either side of his face, running his thumb over Castiel’s tanned cheekbones. He kissed him again, loving the slide of their lips together. He let his hands drift over Cas’s neck, and down to the collar of the uniform shirt he wore. He unbuttoned the top button, then the next, savoring each flash of skin he exposed. He hadn’t had a chance to do this on the island; the only time he had undressed Cas was in a panic, after his fall, and clothes had seemed pointless when all they had wanted to do was explore each other’s bodies. Dean let his mouth trail over the clean skin, as he followed his fingers down to the waist of Cas’s pants.

He wasn’t hard yet, they’d hardly started foreplay, after all, so Dean undid the fly and slid his hand inside to cup the soft length. As it started to fill, Dean had a moment of apprehension—that was going to be inside of him. 

“We don’t have to do this, Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice hoarse. His head was thrown back in pleasure, baring his beautiful neck, and Dean placed an open mouthed kiss there. “There are so many other things we can do—like this.” He closed his hand over Dean’s as Dean stroked his cock. 

“I’ve thought about it,” Dean said. He was getting hard himself now, the thick weight of Cas’s cock in his hand as arousing as any girlie mag. 

“But, Dean,” Cas panted. Dean let up on his strokes; he still had plans for that cock. “You’re not…”

Dean pulled his hand away. “I’m not what, Cas? I’m not a fairy? I’m not a queer?”

“I keep expecting you to realize your mistakes. We’re not on the island anymore.”

“I know, Cas,” Dean grinned. “I wasn’t about to let you fuck me with rabbit grease.”

“Yes, they were very lean rabbits—no, no, no. Dean, you like girls; you’re going to remember that eventually.”

Dean nodded. “I also like you.” He punctuated his words with a long kiss, letting his tongue slide in just enough to tease, before pulling away. “I also may have jerked it so hard after seeing _Somebody Up There Likes Me_ last year that I sprained my wrist. I had to tell my brother I got in a fight with some roustabout over a girl. It was _not_ because of a girl.”

Seeing Cas loosen up at his admission, Dean began to unbutton his own shirt, watching Cas’s eyes follow the movement hungrily. He dropped his pants, too, and they pooled around his ankles; there hadn’t been any underwear to borrow. Stepping out of his pants, he crossed to one of the beds, pulled back the covers, and spread himself out on it. He wasn’t fully hard yet, so he took his cock in hand and began to stroke it. It filled in his hand, helped by the view of Cas dropping his own trousers and slowly making his way to the bed. 

It was indeed a challenge to fit both of them in the berth. After much maneuvering, and Castiel having to get up and fetch the jar of Vaseline where they’d left it in Dean’s pant pocket, they settled into a comfortable position. Dean was on his stomach, one leg bent against the wall, the other dangling over the side of the bed, while Cas crouched between his spread legs, supporting himself with a hand flat on the bed by Dean’s waist. Dean had never felt more vulnerable nor more safe; Cas would take care of him. Cas peppered the small of his back and ass with tiny kisses, rubbing his freshly shaven face against the sensitive skin. Dean let himself relax into the mattress, which was like lying on a cloud compared to their makeshift bed in the cave.

Cas spread a generous amount of Vaseline on his fingers, then circled Dean’s asshole with one of them, just like he’d done on the island. It felt good; Dean was sensitive there, and the light touch tickled and teased. The tip of Cas’s finger slipped in—Dean had liked it before, so he wasn’t worried. Cas moved up to kiss the side of his neck and began to move his finger in shallow thrusts. It was the strangest sensation, not quite pleasure, not quite pain, more like the feeling that something was where it was not supposed to be. The sense of invasion increased as Cas pushed his finger in further, the thickest part of it stretching Dean in a way that he found he did not mind. He was so sensitive inside he couldn’t believe it; every tiny shift of Cas’s long finger felt huge. Cas pulled his finger out again, so only the tip remained, but Dean could still feel it like a phantom inside him. He added a second finger, and the stretch was so overwhelming he gasped.

“Dean?” Cas asked. His fingers stopped their journey, but he didn’t remove them.

“’s good, sweetheart,” 

Cas’s fingers pushed in the rest of the way, in tiny thrusts again that let Dean get used to the intrusion. Then Cas shifted them and pressed against the muscle and the sensation changed. Dean couldn’t describe the feeling; it was as if he could feel the tingling pressure from Cas’s fingers places where Cas wasn’t even touching him. He let out a surprised grunt. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean gasped. “What are you doing? What is that?” Cas continued to press inside him, and the tingling increased—he could definitely feel it in his cock, now—and then suddenly it was like he’d put his foot all the way down on the gas pedal and he was overcome with the strongest wave of pleasure he’d ever experienced. 

Had he come? He squeezed a hand underneath himself to feel. His cock was steadily leaking, but still hard and unspent. He gave it a cursory squeeze to be sure, and groaned at the contact. “What the hell was that?”

“You didn’t know?” Cas asked, leaning forward to kiss Dean. His fingers were still inside Dean, so he had to stretch to reach his mouth. Dean leaned his head back to help, and Cas pressed his tongue inside just as he thrust his fingers again. Dean felt another overwhelming wave of pleasure, and he had to pull away to gasp. Cas nuzzled against the back of his neck, since his free hand was supporting his weight. “You wanted to do this, and you didn’t know. You wanted to do this just for me.” Cas sounded dazed.

“It’s not like I’ve ever done it before,” Dean said between panting breaths. Cas had started thrusting his fingers in earnest, in and out, in a preview of what he’d do with his cock later. Once Dean was used to the feeling, Cas started separating his fingers, stretching Dean open, all the while kissing Dean’s shoulders, back, and whatever other skin he could get his mouth on. His fingers burned, but Dean was still excited enough that he needed to move his hips against the bed to get friction on his cock. Another finger inside furthered the burn, but Dean was so far gone, he couldn’t care. Why did people look down on this as something dirty and disgusting? Dean had never felt better…

He’d never felt more loved.

The loss of Cas’s fingers made him whimper. “Cas,” he sighed. “I need you.”

“Dean,” Cas gasped, sitting back on his haunches. He sounded as far gone as Dean was. “May I?”

Dean tried to get enough leverage to thrust backwards, but he could only move a few inches. Cas took the hint, however, and chuckled darkly. Then Dean felt blunt, thick pressure at the ring of muscle Cas had been working open. That was Cas’s cock—Cas’s beautiful cock that had already given Dean so much pleasure. It felt impossibly huge, but he could feel himself accepting it, the pressure increasing, increasing, until, with a wet slurping sound, the head of Cas’s cock slid inside him.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas moaned. “It’s so tight—you’re so tight. I can feel you, hot—hotter than your mouth. God, how are you so hot?” He was babbling incoherent, fractured thoughts, but his praise made Dean’s cheeks burn. He continued pushing in, stretching Dean beyond what he thought himself capable of, until Dean could feel Cas’s balls make contact with his ass and the soft scratch of his pubic hair. Cas was still jabbering. “Dean, I’m inside you. I never thought—” he ended on a low groan, shifting his hips experimentally.

Again, the feeling of Cas’s thrusts was more about pressure than pleasure, but Dean didn’t mind so much. Cas was falling apart behind him, bracing himself with his hands flat on the bed on either side of Dean’s torso, and one knee bracketed by Dean’s legs. Foreplay had been enough for Dean; he’d get his after Cas’s turn—with Cas’s mouth or Cas’s hand. This was for Cas, and everything he’d given Dean. That was what was most import—

Suddenly, Cas shifted his angle, and he’d found that spot inside Dean again, making Dean shiver and groan. Dean was then the one babbling incoherently, as Cas pounded into that spot again and again. “Yeah, sweetheart, right there. Fuck, Cas. _Fuck_.”

Cas had found his rhythm, smoothly thrusting into Dean in long, powerful strokes. He mouthed at the back of Dean’s neck and his shoulder, and Dean had never felt more taken care of. Between the pressure on his cock from the bed below and from Cas inside him, he was nearly at his peak. He could feel it building from deep inside him, like electricity buzzing through his veins, and then it hit him.

Dean could feel his cock thicken and pulse underneath him, spreading his release over the sheets and his belly. Wave after wave of bliss overcame him, his ass fluttering around Cas, spurring him on, as he thrust deeper and harder. Then Cas was right there with him, spasming above him, filling him up with his hot release. “ _Dean_ ,” he groaned. 

Cas rolled off of Dean after a moment of rest, when their pulses had returned to normal and their breathing calmed. The weight of him gone, Dean rolled over to face him. Cas’s handsome face was full of such tenderness that Dean had to look away. Cas’s clean hand forced his face towards him again. “Dean, thank you for letting me do that. It was astounding. I hope that it was at least agreeable for you.” It was Cas’s turn to look away, blushing through his tan.

“No lie, Cas. It was fucking fantastic. It was also fantastic fucking. We are definitely doing that again.”

Cas smiled softly, and pressed his lips against Dean’s. They were too spent for it to be heated, but it was tender and warm. “You should come to New York,” he whispered.

“What?”

“You wanted to stay on the island with me. Manhattan is merely a different island.”

“Cas,” Dean said, unable to believe what Cas was asking. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean…”

“There are cars in Manhattan, Dean. Boats, too, if that’s what you’d prefer, still.”

“God, no. No boats,” Dean grimaced. “But it’s not gonna fly with your family. It’s fucking illegal, Cas. Won’t people notice?”

“My family won’t notice, Dean. I live in the Village; my neighbors will not care that I’ve gotten a roommate. New York has eased up on its sodomy laws. No one cares what we do in the privacy of our home.”

“Our home?” Dean’s heartrate sped up again.

“I love you. I want you there for the rest of my life. No matter where we are.” He looked so sincere, so beautiful that Dean’s heart leaped.

“Yeah, Cas. Yeah. I love you, too.”

They kissed, long and slow until exhaustion finally took over and they fell asleep.

Dean was comfortable and warm. His body knew it was no longer sleeping on a deflated raft on a stone floor, but his mind was still confused by the sound of knocking. Their cave hadn’t had a door, and the only guests had been their rescuers. Suddenly the incongruity of it all woke him up completely, and he realized someone was knocking on the door to their cabin. Had they locked it? They couldn’t risk someone coming in and seeing them like this, naked and entangled. Cas was still asleep, so Dean un-entwined himself from his lover, and stood up. He covered Cas’s beautiful body with the blanket they’d knocked to the floor in their passion, and then turned to the second bed. He rustled the covers and punched the pillows until it looked like he could have napped there, then found his pants on the floor and put them on.

Anna was raising her hand to knock again when Dean found her standing outside.

“Uh,” he hesitated. “I think your brother is still asleep.”

“God, you must be sick of him,” Anna said conspiratorially. “He _is_ my brother, and I love him, but if I had had to spend a fortnight with no company but Castiel, I’d probably scream.”

“He wasn’t so bad,” Dean said, feigning disinterest.

“I have a private stateroom, you know, and _I’m_ very good company,” she said. She tried to force her way into the room, but only succeeded in pushing the door open past Dean, so that he was fully exposed to her, and so was the room.

The noise had disturbed Cas, and he stirred. “Dean, come back to bed,” he groaned, still mostly asleep. 

Anna’s eyes widened as she caught sight of her brother, then she focused on Dean and choked out a gasp. Dean realized what he must have looked like: days of hickies, his spend was probably still smeared over his belly, and Cas’s—not that Anna would be able to tell—was dripping out his asshole. He looked like he had been rode hard and put away wet, and it had not escaped Anna’s notice.

“What’s going on?” she frowned.

Her voice woke Cas up completely, and he dropped his head. “Anna,” he growled. “Leave Dean alone. We’ve slept in close proximity every night for several weeks, and we had grown accustomed to it. I’ll join you and father before dinner, and, for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut.”

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish, looking between Cas on the bed, obviously naked under the sheets, and Dean, filthy and debauched in the doorway.

“Sorry, Miss Milton,” Dean said. “I’m fine with the room, and with the company.”

She gave one final look to each of them, pursed her lips, and left.

Closing the door behind her, and making sure to lock it, Dean turned back to Cas. “I think she may have noticed.”

He dropped his pants again, and went to the small sink in the room. There wasn’t a private bath or WC, but a pile of soft cloths was next to the water. He wiped off the mess on his belly and ass, rinsed the cloth and moved to the bed. He cleaned Cas’s cock—he had plans for it, soon—and cleaned the Vaseline off his fingers, as well. Tossing the cloth to the floor, he straddled Cas in bed.

“You up for more?” Cas asked, leaning in to lick Dean’s collarbone.

“Maybe a little something,” Dean grinned. “But I think we’ll have to wait for anything more back there.”

Cas moved lower, to lick and bite at Dean’s nipple. “You are so perfect, Dean,” he breathed against Dean’s skin.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said. He held Cas’s head against his chest, encouraging him to continue his attention on his sensitive nipples. “What were you writing earlier?”

“A poem,” Cas answered and returned to his ministrations.

“Well, yes,” Dean conceded. “About what?”

“About you. That can’t be a surprise.”

Dean crawled off Cas and stood up. He indicated Cas to sit on the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees. It was a tight fit, as the beds were close together, but he could fit if he bent the right way.

“You should read it to me,” he said, leaning to nuzzle against the soft skin of Cas’s inner thigh.

“Alright,” Cas said breathlessly. He stood up and climbed past Dean to retrieve the precious book from his pants pocket, then joined Dean on the bed. He flipped through the notebook until he found the newest poem, and read in that deep voice Dean loved.

> You have rebuilt me, my love,  
>  In your image

he began. Dean mouthed against Cas’s half-hard cock, loving the way it thickened against his lips. He flicked his tongue against the head, pressing deep into the slit and tasting the bitter liquid. Cas read on.

> The parts of you that entice me,  
>  I see reflected in your eyes,  
>  As if we are a circle.  
>  Where you begin, I begin,  
>  Where you end—,em>oh, Dean—the sky meets the horizon in a never ending path into the distance,  
>  For you are infinite.

Cas was fully engulfed in Dean’s mouth, and his voice became shaky. He used a free hand to stroke Dean’s hair. Dean pulled away to lick Cas’s balls; he nuzzled into the notch where Cas’s leg met his hip. 

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he whispered against warm skin.

With great effort, Cas read on.

> My heart beats in your chest,  
> Strong with your vitality.  
> I hold yours in my hands,  
> Tenderly.

He paused to let out a deep moan as Dean took him as deeply as he could; Dean’s throat fluttered around the intrusion. Dean was getting himself worked up, as well, from Cas’s words and Cas’s cock, and he dropped a hand to stroke himself. 

> For I know it has been put back together,  
> With bits of paper  
> And dabs of glue  
> And wrapped in the last of the bandage, like you wrapped my leg.  
> But it is still beautiful.  
> I love you, I love you.

He stiffened and moaned, “I love you. Oh, Dean, I love you so much.” 

Cas poured into Dean’s mouth, thick and hot. One last stroke, and Dean was painting the floor himself. He looked up at Cas, knowing he must have looked debauched, and winked.

“Good poem, sweetheart.”


	14. Epilogue

Six months later.

Castiel hated his professor. Adler was a hack; he couldn’t cut it writing himself, so, instead, he force-fed antiquated rules into the brightest and most promising minds of the new generation of poets. He was going to ruin them, and, simply because Castiel refused to kowtow to the nonsensical dictates of four hundred years ago, he was going to fail Adler’s class. Cas had been so upset about it that he’d missed his stop on the subway and had to walk an extra three blocks back to his apartment.

He was in a terrible mood as he walked up the six flights of stairs, passing Hannah, rocking her new baby in the doorway, Efram and Jonah arguing over money, and a young woman in pedal pushers smoking on the fourth floor landing. As he climbed higher, the delicious scent of someone’s dinner wafted over the scent of cigarettes and laundry, making his stomach rumble in envy. 

Finally, he turned the key in the lock and pushed his door open to find that delicious smell coming from his own apartment.

"Hey, you’re home!” Dean poked his head out of the kitchen door, a radiant smile on his handsome face. All of Castiel’s anger and frustration faded in the light of that smile, of Dean’s presence.

Castiel dropped his book bag in the small living room—also Dean’s bedroom to anyone who asked—and crossed to the even smaller kitchen where Dean was stirring a pot on the stove.

“What’s this?” he asked, kissing the back of Dean’s neck.

“Rabbit stew with fennel,” Dean said with a smirk. “For old times’ sake.”

Castiel bent over the simmering pot and took a long whiff. It smelled like something out of a dream. When he looked at Dean—through his steamed up glasses—Dean had a pleased grin on his face. Castiel removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, so he could see his lover clearly. “How was the shop? Work on anything interesting?”

“A ’39 Zephyr. This thing was a beauty, sweetheart.”

“Only you would get excited about old cars, Dean.” 

“I’m excited you’re home,” Dean said, turning to wrap his arm around Castiel’s neck and kiss the bolt of his jaw. “Six months ago today we washed up on our island.”

“Has it been that long?” 

“You’re such a sweet-talker, Cas,” Dean laughed.

“No,” Castiel sputtered. “I mean time has flown because it’s been so wonderful.” Dean threw his head back in his continued laughter. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” Castiel realized.

“Yes, Dear,” Dean smirked, and laid kisses on Castiel’s cheeks and lips. “Now set the table. I’m going to get the pie out of the oven.”

Castiel stole one final kiss, then moved to the cupboard and grabbed some bowls, two stemmed glasses, and spoons. The table was outside of the kitchen, near the only window in the room, and he placed the setting so that he and Dean could sit close while they ate.

“Are you going to help with the rolls?” Dean called from the kitchen.

Castiel rejoined him, and they moved in perfect sync around the stove. The rolls had been proofed and only needed Castiel to brush them with melted butter and put them in the oven. The pie—his mother’s recipe—was cooling on the counter. Dean had been slowly teaching Castiel to cook and do other chores, like hauling laundry to the laundromat every week. Castiel still took peanut butter sandwiches with him to school every day, but he usually came home to a meal they would cook together. Dean loved his job at a mechanic’s shop, where he got to work on the cars he loved, rather than churn his stomach on the water. He talked about his family often—fond memories rather than painful ones—but family had begun to take on a new meaning for both of them. Anna came to visit on occasion. She was still the only Milton to know about their relationship. She had come to accept it, eventually. They had friends, as well, _bohemians_ like them—Charlie and Gilda, Jesse and Cesar, Jenna, Aaron. They were building a life together in Manhattan, just as they had planned to do on the island. 

As Dean dished up the stew in the kitchen, Castiel looked around their apartment. He had lived in the small space for a year before meeting Dean, but it had never felt the way it did now. Everything in the apartment was changed by Dean’s presence, not just his dirty coveralls in the hamper or his favorite leather jacket in the closet. Souvenirs from their time on the island were all around; shells displayed on the window sill, the baskets that had helped save Castiel’s life now held fresh fruit from the market, and the raft that had brought them there had been cut up and woven into a mat that welcomed guests into their home. What could be salvaged from Anna’s white dress had been transformed into a quilt and pillow cases by a talented friend, and they slept every night together on satin and lace. Dean had transformed the space as surely as he had transformed Castiel’s life; he had made it a home.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered where they had lived, for the peace and love they’d found on the island hadn’t come from the blue Aegean Sea or the windswept ancient volcano, it had come from finding each other.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Quite Paradise (Art MasterPost)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225279) by [OnceUponADestiel (Jems_of_Grace)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jems_of_Grace/pseuds/OnceUponADestiel)




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